My father saw the feathers on the waves and grieved
and hadn't heard the voice within the wind
and blew the wax back into form the way
the cold dawn shapes a candle's foam.
I had heard that voice before
in some far time beyond this place
and I think of it now as a living net,
though I do not know how it spans our world
or if it sings from its strings or its spaces.
-Susan Stewart
