Between Between branches of a weeping willow, Half a hexagon of puzzle fragments, Moon's dim haze reflects from the wall Just over the path of my front garden, What children live beyond the gate? With nine years of age, I have to ask: What is there? ¬ do not know. Which direction, what plan to adopt? Then my thoughts fall into the 'you', Giving answers, fragile or counteracting How does inanimate matter work anyhow? With fourteen years I have to ask again: How do I comprehend? ¬ But Every new heart, a new question. Pursuing my readings like a fad, With nineteen years, I still have to ask, Erring randomly along a silhouette band, Dead between red planes of sky and lake, At one corner: how? At the next: what? A billboard ad, repellingly darts back: Truth can only be found in a vision.