Whose hand now tracks this journey in its field?
Who placed it in that Universal norm?
Whose pattern makes it swirl and glow and yield?
Whose logic gives it stature in this form?
Its turnings strong and sure; no anxious pause.
Its destination perfect and sublime;
the artist pushed that pencil is first cause
for other worlds envisioned at that time.
Who tracks my body into being mine?
Who gives me voice and life; connections, too?
Directions come from stardust where I shine.
Pitched in black ponds, dust forms a circling brew.
Whose journey sends a chilling down my spine?
Imagined hand thus prompted by what mind?