At first I longed for a familiar
bend, a well-known shape of space or
thing, some end. The new way
wandered so, spending warm hours
along the creek. This road, I said,
has all the time there is, while I,
I may have hours only. A road
without a marker—that’s lonely.
Time was all the answer that I
heard, for all about me, ripe leaves
from a tree, hours fell. I walked in
deep time, slowly became one
with it, searched for no landmark,
then, found the whole richness of no
when. Learned that to know is a
closed place: only to wonder opens into space.