Do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?
—Tao te Ching, 15
Mapmaker, too long I have trusted you
to tell me the legend of my own palm.
I am turning, now, to the crow who
doesn’t pretend to know where he’s going.
Nowhere. Nowhere. Somewhere. Here.
Black wing and black eye and all that sky.
Too long I have trusted your topo lines,
your serpentine routes, your keys.
Mapmaker, I believed in destinations,
in right turns and right path and right mind and
wrong. I am turning my legend into song.
Caw. Caw. Caw.
Oh mapmaker, it is your job to know.
It is my job now to let you go. Caw. Caw. Caw.
Wings in my palms and wings in my breast
and wings in my lips and wings in my breath
and wings in my yes and wings in my ache and wings
in my palms and wings in my loss and wings in my bliss
and wings in my tears, I am burning my maps
and tossing my compass and where am I going?
Caw. Caw. Caw.
This is my favorite spot, and the poem speaks so well by choosing the crow as your guide.
“Wings in my palms and wings in my breast
and wings in my lips and wings in my breath
and wings in my yes and wings in my ache and wings
in my palms and wings in my loss and wings in my bliss
and wings in my tears
I think I might get rid of that second set of caws. They read too much like filler and spoil the lead to that wonderful sequence referred to above. And besides, the bird has its say at the end again, upon setting out once more.
Oh, how brave, says, me, clinging tightly to my Atlas.