TO A POET

My reading slow, I hold the sounds
scratched on paper, hear a song
that draws me near, behind your eyes—

ten thousand rivers fall in moonlight,
all the stars like cold fire streaming
from the mountains and you are there.

Beyond them, beyond you and I,
we cannot hear or see, even in daylight,
swept up in the Canyon Wren’s cascades

falling into pools lapping mossy rocks.
My empty mind is full with your eyes
on paper I can revisit any time of day.