I approach these volumes like old friends,
weathered, heavy with neglect, dusty
Around the edges, sometimes brittle,
And from one, at random, find
The line that tells me the riddle
For the day, that sets the stage
For my play, like the opening
Bars of a concerto, the cage
That contains the song of the bird.
One line, one word, is enough,
And one rule to observe,
As it begins to unfold
As it should. Be quiet, be still,
And what needs to be told
Most certainly will.