A Path To The Edge Of Recorded Time

Let the form be a garden
in wild wilderness,
a hyacinth language,
a turning in wind
when marginal influences
disrupt the flow.
Build thought
as a bee does,
one concern at a time,
a hexagonal symmetry
deep in the structure;
or explore the foundation
of a derelict house,
its cellarhole cracked
by bracken and trees
with daffodils blooming
alongside the door,
and off in the woods,
sometimes a forsythia.
And a carrion beetle
to bury the mouse,
the skeletal memories
of things that are gone;
or hidden, like antlers,
deep in the pines
where branches are tossed,
a path to the edge
of recorded time,
that stops at a place
where the language is lost.
--Barbara Jordan (This Poem)

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downward through the evening twilight
you would be flying home