The Mirror of Truth

The winter-wind bobbed the pine’s crown to and fro,
As if it were affixed to the star above it;
Right then I might as well have been a child;
Unsteady on his feet, unsure of his future –
The feeling so divine –
That I bid the wind blow me back and forth forever,
Like the pine feeling all at once: what was and will be.
I knew then that I’d be a writer:
The draw of that midnight dash
For a world not yet conquered
Too strong;
The destination of no import-
Victory or defeat both the same;
To the mind that dreams
Of a winter wind