What a glassy pool. What a cold refreshing spring.

Just what was it that I tapped

into like a sudden gust on a homebound lover’s sails?

It came just shortly before stars behind

the street-light-reflective underbelly of a migrating flock. Once again,

once again, did you hear those words

or see anything, or could what you saw have been put into words?

It doesn’t matter in the spring.

It is like on my way somewhere, anywhere again.

Toes forced to tap.

Clearly there is a rhythm behind

time as it sails.

Clearly this is the not time to cut the sails.

(Nor is there ever a time for this) Clearly I cannot put this into words.

There is something much bigger behind

this. It is like the birth of mud dwelling microbes in spring

at the feet of a flower, where its roots tap

into the soil and everything lives again,

or when it happens unexpectedly the next year again

or the third or fiftieth time the planet sails

in its orbit on a wobbly axis around the sun, our hemisphere tapping

into its energy. Heat is very indirectly but completely responsible for words,

heat and the waters that spring

from the earth, from deep behind

huge gray mossy rocks, behind

them tall mountains, and further back, the sky again

until one traces it all to springing

really from nowhere but more like sailing

around in cycles that we probably couldn’t understand without words,

nor can words tap

that understanding, nor could any drummer tap

the rhythm that dances behind

whatever we have defined with words.

I have digressed again

and it will not be the last time (I am tangential and always sailing

west) there are always arcade gophers springing

up. There are always things to tap into again.

Behind every trough, a crest sails

and every word, I like to fancy, eventually finds its source in some mystic spring.