I am the keeper of the door.
I am dust-motes dancing over an empty floor
transfixed by sunlight through an empty room.
I am the iris of the night-eye’s bloom.
I am the keeper of the whole.
I am the blossom in the blossoming soul
and the blood-red death smear on twilit snow.
I emerged from nothing; to the same hole I go.
I am the keeper of the sun.
I burn his heels to make him run
and bring down night to sit on his grave.
I am the forefront of a growing wave.
I keep the spring until the first snows:
the keeper dies. While he does, he grows.
April 28, 1975
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