302

Down, snows!
                                 Our garden, dark bouche,
Swallows your ferment.
                                 Had I known your coming
Would be from darkness,
                I would have left a lamp before you,
At the heel of the path.
You father out your formlessness in shoals :
                                 Dim cloudbody, suspended
                Above the rooftops,
Drifting with the silent grace of a cephalopod.
                                 
                                                 Our thoughts may 
Dart out their patterns into the gloom,
                And you will not be exhausted in it,
For your darkness is as the soil
                That takes the fall of lightning
And the coursing rain
                         And forges itself anew in each.
Come down to us where we watch for you,
        Celebrator of surfaces, dolmen of voices!

Our memory that flies into its own forms
                                         Waits for your touch :
It is as you have been.              Come forth now.