Will you not be a letter in flight, a bird,
long years morphing into sequences of gold?
Will you not be a pool unruffled by the suffering stone,
unmoved by the face that must stare to rival its own?
Will you not be a flowering spear, garden aroused
from slumber by sound, a rain-filled and viable day?
Will you not be the measure of shorn-away years multiplied
by the net of some larger ardor, unfathomable by the eye?
Will you not be the lever, the door, the moon; gauntlet
unthrown, unraveled thread that will lead to its source?