As
the moving air is there without ceasing
The
touching of my hands upon the keys
Takes
my fingers on a dance of words
The
mystery is plain --- as plain as the single
Line
of footprints of him upon the sand
Which
was when he first, began to carry me
Quite
continuous, the “it,” as the white line
In
the centre of the road
Continuous
as the growth of leaves
On
a young evergreen tree ---
So
the cyclic gift goes on and on
It
needs not to be waited for it waits for me
*
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