It is the place I return to.Lying awake nights I imaginethe wind just back from the cypress treesbrushing me lightly as Istep from the house;
in the garden the leaves are speaking ofroads that empty into stillness.
July; each star wants us to see through it& find the universe.
I will walk up the road behind the house& think of a young boy running in & outthrough the doors of darkness, calling hisfriends by name; his friends call back, leapinginto the tall grass to meet him.
I return to the house. From a window, a womanshouts for the boy to come in.
I feel sorry for herlike the fool that I am,like the man I will never be.
