Through my own fingers, my eyes, my palm,

and through my worlds, huge or small,

I call on my fury to spin me calm:

breathe me. I need to land to fall.

Rain, wet my wand. Wind, move my sword.

Lightening, light crystal till a thundering cup

forms me in a channel to take on a word—

Oh, pour me a pentacle to gather up!

And in time, carve a storm in the palm of my hand.

Spin me the shapes to send me down

my own river’s body, until I stand

at the table a waiting planet surrounds,

needing what I hardly know or see:

we are the storm that makes, makes me.

From Spells (first published in The Yale Review)