A whole afternoon field inside me from one stem of reed.
The messenger comes running toward me, irritated:
Why be so hard to find?
Last night I asked the moon about the Moon, my one question for the visible world, Where is God?
The moon says, I am dust stirred up
when he passed by. The sun, My face is pale yellow from just now seeing him. Water: I slide on my head and face like a snake, from a spell he said. Fire: His lightening, I want to be that restless. Wind, why so light? I would burn if I had the choice. Earth, quiet and thoughtful? Inside me I have a garden and an underground spring.
The world hurts my head with its answers,
wine filling my hand, not my glass.
If I could wake completely, I would say without speaking
why I'm ashamed of using words.