A clear day toward Thanksgiving.
Light on slight mantling
of snow, along the slanting
Mississippi (wave of returning
gravity into the mouth, the Gulf).
There is a magnet
in the heights, a great
Pole Star, that rotates over Beowulf,
Black Elk; there is a matrix point
for all our muttering,
for crazy flotsam drifting
to the sea... a limestone font.
A child climbed from a light-lapped cave
along a spiral trail –
a thread from beryl-burial
to emerald grail (one sea-swell wave).
Beneath grey-wingèd clouds she rose,
called forth by whisper-smoke
of Earth’s holm-oak.
Her name is Imago, her echo flows
into the planetary sarabande –
(spring, summer, fall)
to Morning Star, at seasons’ end.
Her name is Liberty, she rides the prow
of every soul – bright salt
of gaiety – the glistening vault
of Ariadne’s crown gracing her brow.