Unenduring whim and whimsy all, Building doesn’t see, flirting in trees, the birds who don’t seem to dream. The good earth moves slowly, bending in time with roof and floor and Building bends not in his belief that harmony’s like honey gathering in stable hives of dreaming bees, to be patient to the earth, happy. Building stands up between breaths of shadowy trees, green leaves, and knows what ideas are, the wood. Slowly, Building abides with stone and soil, breathing warm in his own shelter, tall under a shadow a mountain made, dreaming that time is time, and what a door is for. Building remains there in his rooms. As in his dreaming, opening the being that builds himself, his windows, glass, are somewhere, not only within his mind, but balanced on the globe embraced, dreaming of the fear that is known, of what moves behind them, whole, and of the wonder that there his walls are the world. At his door, a road is born, and all is in good standing.
September 1972