Scud

The mind in the cave is not
Born in the cave, is a guest.

The cave, the host, the bone shell
Loves the mind and keeps it warm.

The mind paints the cave with art,
As if the art were the cave’s,

As if the mind were the cave’s.
If the mind would just step out

And look at the sky, the mind
Would note the scud at the edge

Of the dome of land and light
And know the storm on its way

Comes to wash minds out of caves.
Go back, mind. Come back and hide.