When the early morning light quietly
grows above the mountains . . . .
The world’s darkening never reaches
to the light of Being
We are too late for the Gods and too
early for Being. Being’s poem, just begun, is man.
To head toward a star – this only.
To think is to confine yourself to a
single thought that one day stands
still like a star in the world’s sky.
When the little windwheel outside
the cabin window sings in the
gathering thunderstorm . . . .
When thought’s courage stems from
the bidding of Being, then
destiny’s language thrives.
As soon as we have the thing before
our eyes, and in our hearts an ear
for the word, thinking prospers.
Few are experienced enough in the
difference between an object of
scholarship and a matter thought.
If in thinking there were already
adversaries and not mere
opponents, then thinking’s case
would be more auspicious.
When through a rent in the rain-clouded
sky a ray of the sun suddenly glides
over the glooms of the meadow . . . .