this web, my weaver

nine hazel trees
the nine hazels

of all these foreign trees, hazel it is that impales me at the last, takes me up

in its drawing vessels, sucks up my soul into its wood, sifts through my wisdom,

wears it awhile as greenly as leaves, shining with sun, and then suddenly

it swells out a thousand warm, sweet little brown hearts filled with love.


a thousand, a million hearts.  i am – my journey is – poetry, the step of the bard

my step, my vision is through a poet’s eyes, my song howls from the lips of all-bard.

all my fellows, knowing and unknowing, and all the ancient and recent voices,

and the voices yet unsprung from the seeds we are sowing in the singing of our songs.


all journeys meet in every step of every journey.  no, they can’t be counted.

if i look over my left shoulder, uncountable are my fathers and mothers,

and over my right shoulder, uncountable are my evolutions, each woven from its own

uncountable evolutions.  i am a magic carpet, a tardis, a talisman, a flute.


at my left hand how many brothers and sisters am i, here where i stand?

at my right hand, how many magical creatures am i?  at my feet, the infinitude

of beginnings of all the journeys i am – do i take them all?  are they destinies?

do i choose? how stranded am i? how woven?  and am i, this web, my weaver?


oh, it’s love is the hardest, the last won – they tell me it’s won; i believe it, but

here i break, i fall to my knees, i skin my knees on the sharp edges of stones.

is it really for me to be giving each its due, to know what’s due to each?

is it really demanded of me, who thrashes on time’s hook, to have judgement and will?