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.






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