This Turning
what one says
depends not on
words the wind
begins it does
not end but
lends itself to
an end this
turning may be
an answer the
sound of intent
so concealed a
word displayed is
only a word
not an end
nor the beginning
Another oldie from the eighties. It seems that even my poetry was thinner then.
O at the Edges 
I might not have identified this poem as yours if I hadn’t been told, but it’s so interesting to hear those familiar frequencies in there, sort of anticipatory echoes. I love time travel. 😊
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Some of the old poems seem to have been written by a stranger. This one carries certain “frequencies” as you mentioned, and I can even remember writing it, lo those many years ago.
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