Once, I think, you looked down and saw what was before you,
And begged not to come at all, and then heard one say
—A bright one, your special one: “This is your journey.”
Then his gesture swept the sight from memory away.

Sandals of forgetfulness, staff and scrip of hoping,
He gave into your hand, and, in a pale cloak,
He wrapped himself away from you, though you half knew him there,
Often. . . .in blue dusk. . . .in sunrise smoke.

A royal road from sea to sea, like a hero's highway,
You took it lonely town after town,
Forest and prairie. Now beyond the great divide,
Long past the desert, you are near the down.

Not like the eastern is the western ocean,
Its sky-line is lost in mist, but at its near shore
Wonderful its colors, like a daytime sunset. . . .
When the sand you tread is wet, you will see him once more.

Not as you thought, with tears, but with low laughter
Strangely light and care-free, you will understand
How many times he paced you, and his step your own was timing,
How many times your cross-road was the gesture of his hand…