i was seeded in the womb of vision. in the dream of sleep i woke.
i am the light. i am the mothering eagle, the eagling mother, the gyre
of seeking, the seeking gyre of finding, the winding gyre, the gyring wind,
the lift of wing, the wing. i am the manifestation. i am my home.
home! home how, and where? home from where wide and wakeful winds wind
wisely about, from where the north and south and east and west
are facets of one wind of winding air, and by yielding a little
each to the pull of the other, becoming each other little by little till at rest.
from where a circle spinning on its axis is a sphere? up here
where the birds make their nests out of circles they fly in the air?
where the sun make her planets of circles she spins in the sky?
where momentous minds spin out sentient circles? eyes? are we eyes?
yes, yes, eyes! but it isn’t until i’m lost that i look for the inward,
the circle-making centre. not till i’m spun out, winding wide
like a wind, like a planet, like a sun, do i find that i am
the centre-making circle, the centre, that i am the eye-making i.
many blue eyes blink at me, white throats chuckle. golden is the hair
of this one’s beard. in his hand a brand, a blazing wand. at his feet
the fire, the fire of the grove, the sacred grove, the hearth. i can smell
the smoke. i can see the sky. i am flat on my back in the grove.