The Walker Sits

who is there who raises glass
to this silence,
except at sleep, wine-quiet
with evening’s passage into dream?

this silence that tilts its mirror
into the faces of self,
and there asks its potent riddles
to the wrinkles of being’s time

this silence, unfolding presence
from nothing to nothing,
except in sacred ideas which flash forth
like caravans of metal over dunes

who is there who
toasts this cheer to the one
who is anchored to chair but carried
on stardust to the glowing
that seats its slow essence
in nightskin?

© J. Celan Smith