Abstract
I pause on the path, drop my sticks,and bend to read them like runes.Tell the stars, They said. So I do daily—I chart their breathless turning asI gather berries in the bush—Each twig's finger marks celestial points—North is Reckoner's Compass. South,Theory's Backbone. West, God's Thumbs,and East, Mount Moriah—Yet, I see more:Beyond—within—the navigable wildernessabove, 18 quasars guard the edge of theuniverse, like many-petaled amaranths.I peer into time—my tongue bends to liquidfire, tells of trillions of suns flung from theseorange hives.Now I perceive the beehive of beingness,honeycomb of allspace, linking stars intocells full of honeyed light throughout alltime.1I remember again words the Lord clappedin my palm—Write the stars. Write thestars. Write the stars.
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