Turn then to face your own light, so shadows
fall behind, and wherever the path goes
uphill, down, or peters out, stay the trail
even if the odd constellation fails,
even if the coppery moon never glows.
Paths and poetry both come to an end,
words fall and shatter, useless to pretend
otherwise, their edges sharp as broken stone.
Step lightly into yourself and go on,turn up that wick that can’t be darkened.