Even if she says, “Don’t go, I had a dream,”
you must go.
She will beg to go with you
but you must go alone.
You must not promise to return
because you may not.
You must go and find that place and be there.
It may be a day, or a year, or many years.
You must set out
not knowing where your feet will lead.
You might sleep under a certain tree
or go down into a cave with no light.
You might walk beside bear or elk
or fly a whole season near the sun.
You might build a dam across a stream
or float in a clear pool,
reflecting only light and shade.
You must go to that place,
see what must be seen,
do what must be done.
If you return
she will know you by your face
but your shoulders will be as broad
as the tree you slept under,
your eyes deep
as that cave.