WEBVTT

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This, the last poem I offer,
is called "Heart of Autumn."

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The hour when the first great
flocks of Canadian geese

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come over in the north,
headed south to their fate.

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Wind finds the northwest
gap, fall comes.

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Today, under gray cloud-scud
and over gray wind-flicker

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of forest, in perfect
formation, wild geese

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head for a land of warm water.

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The boom, the lead pellet.

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Some crumple in air, fall.

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Some stagger, recover control.

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Then take the last glide
for a far glint of water.

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None knows what has happened.

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Now, today, watching
how tirelessly V upon V

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arrows the seasons logic,
do I know my own story?

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At least they know when the hour
comes for the great wing beat.

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Sky strider, star strider--

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they rise, and the imperial
utterance which cries out

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for distance quivers
in the wailing sky.

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That much they know,
and their nature

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know the path of pathlessness,
with all the joy of destiny

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for fulfilling its own name.

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I have known time and distance,
but not why I am here.

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Path of logic, path of folly--

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all the same.

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And I stand, my face
lifted now skyward,

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hearing the high beat by arms
outstretched to the tingling

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process of transformation
and soon, tough legs

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with folded feet, trail in the
sounding vacuum of passage,

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and my heart is impacted
with a fierce impulse

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to unavoidable utterance--

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toward sunset at a great height.

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Thank you very much.

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[APPLAUSE]

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