Wind blows through mist
As I sense new invitation.
What lies coursing through these woods?
Where might this lane lead?
Does it ever end?
Might there be a little house
Waiting around some unseen bend—
Or perhaps not a house but home
With fire to warm my hands and bones?
No matter how still I stand
To ponder where to go,
I pay the price that bending beauty knows,
Unbound as much as maples, walnuts, elm
Swaying high above while I stand here below.