who will tell
of morning mists
when I have wandered on
beyond the tempt
of story
into another dawn

who will write
and who will speak
for those denied a voice
who will know
of ways they keep –
by destiny
or choice

what song
the dove
remembers well –
for another one she flies
by touch
a stand of cedars –
holds each star
against the sky

what history
the river lays
along a path of pines
who will bear
their stories home
when light
has tempered mine

. . .