In describing the way the sun moves, and also wind,

           I know something of its essence,

                          the great lake lifting itself to match

                          the darkening sky. A tiny sailboat

          heaves up into the red clay waves aiming for shore.            

Soul moves within all that whirling,

white spooling space that is between—

         not yet in bliss, not yet within that certain clarity.

                          Not as I see now, a strange settling

                         as wind buffets the hull, then drops away,

         sudden as God—.  Gone between where body meets

body, the odd communion wherein you see fully

what came before and what is now: odd, yes, so odd,

        to see with such clarity, a shining, not yet fully known.

                      Where you are, here, in this vital shelter,

                      here is where you will be:—stayed,

       yes, stayed in the whirling, the slow belling—

iron upon iron, stone upon stone, and then, not,

not at all—. How like you this?  How like you this?

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