Bruce Cockburn

You point to the sky
The sky
Is reflected in your eyes
And i
Want to fly
on a carpet of brown leaves
we retrace the steps of change
construct a tapestry of what will come
You point to the sea
I see
What seems to be so free
Bound by
Empty sky
on a tower of gray earth
far above the spray-struck stone
we climb toward the melting point of time
* * *
here we tumble down the path
comic beggars trading laughs
for scraps from the tables of the wise
Toronto -- november ,