AM

There is a sense to him that intrigues me—of an Ancient Person, a curiously insistent Messenger. We were sitting on the beach, talking, and it was a gray day, the tide well out, so that all seemed distant and level. The children were close to the water making forms with the sand. He has lovely clear eyes, a gray, and he comes from the water in that way, sea water, from some far off place as one says in the stories.

Momently we were in New York. He had knocked on the door and now entered, wearing a lovely Edwardian suit, a lovely cloth it was, wool. He handed my wife and myself the pipe, and again moments later, we were walking on the street, and into a charming old building where he helped me ascend the pulpit, and I read from the text though the winds about me roared and the waves did lash. It may be that he is the Caretaker—or taker of cares—and shows one the way.

I don't really know, nor perhaps does he. Again moments later he wrote us from India, was making divers pilgrimages, was climbing a mountain with the people, of all ages, wrote from the moment's calm as they sat, resting, drinking tea, the old and the young. The room filled with an icy air, possibly dust too, the mind was struck by what he said.

I will not argue his presence. I will respect what he has written here—a text in no need of qualification. What his words say, they say.

October 31, 1968