Flowers bloom from wooden rods.
The moon is hovering like a dove
Outside the windowpane
Of the house imagination built.
The hanging man has left his tree,
The emperess is under ground.
We are balloons
Held by a string,
Until we hear the planets sing.
The wind is running from the moon
Distracted by the wordless trees.
But we can touch them if we will,
And place them on our windowsill.
Here is the house imagination built.
Upon the soft, immortal ground
Where angels move without a sound.
Here is the house of windowpanes,
The gentle door, familiar chairs,
And cupboards filled with things we know.
A family of things we know.
There is a forest all around,
And I have known the leaves and trees,
But I have had enough of these,
For the hanging man was me.
