Long Paths of Ink

The moon has sisters that we cannot see
But since they visit me
Oft when I sit down with a pen,
Or hear the phoenix, back from Araby,
Land with a bloom of cinnamon upon the roof,
Or see the frost enameled on the apple’s bark
Drip, sweetened, to the virgin earth,
I may tell you somewhat of them,
But not with words. I am afraid
That we shall have to go
Along a path that hunting angels made
Beneath a chandelier of worlds
That God is pondering,
And danger to the pilgrim may come nigh;
But they are lovely to the cost and more.
Natheless, there is a surer path,
Blue as the peacock's blood: the wine of scribes;
We call it ink.
Sit down and write: the sisters of the moon
Will visit you as they do visit me,
And blue will be the bottoms of their feet,
For they’ll have walked upon long paths of ink.