Spontaneity

Our investigations take us far a-field
And we are scattered to the winds
(The sailor returns from afar).

These are the winds of change,
Blowing from port to port,
Guides and deceivers
Who know us better than our own.

Our goals are their contingencies
And their contingencies necessities;
Necessity itself is fate, and fate
Is a spinning top or a hand
Holding a finger,
Pointing to a word.

What is this word of destiny?

It is roused from the silence of deserts
Alike to the horror of wind; it swoops
From the highlands, unto the river of plains,
And from the plain into oceans of thought.

The oceans of thought are a river, a trickle, a flow
Bringing wanton gulfs to the wild
And waste, the spirit that hovers the deep,
Of the air, the eagle of night, brood
Of the spring, and flock and fall.