Windless season without rain,
you bring the sea up from the rocks
across the cliffs, drifting clouds...
Gray weaves the night as day
and everything moves like sleep.
Trees climb a hill, lights swing
upon circles of darkness,
walls bend a road where you trespass.
You are the mover, the essence
of all things seen and unseen.
Windless you go and rainless,
without form, color, or motion—
in you, all time is one.
Fog or shadow of God maybe,
who walks and whispers so close to me?
2
Here on the shore's last link
against the landscape dream
I stand listening.
Intangible as air
and yet like mesh, a web
winds strands about my head.
I can not see or hear
beyond the moment's rim
that holds me to this pier.