The WORD flew into the garden as a firebird,
Before dawn, so no one would startle it.
Among the foliage of thoughts it flashed for a moment,
Dropped a flame-feather in the grass —
An invitation-hint, so you would search for the dream.

Not the goal, but the process warms the soul.
From around the corner a contented bird watches
How I must look about for it
In words contemplated, spoken, heard.

Call out and hide
But do not miss the moment
In my declining years
To give myself to my student —
Wait for me
At the finish tape.