Wednesday, April 20, 2016

the lamentation of tomorrow's nymph

If only I could sit still enough, I could go away.

I could grow away:
piney fresh and green.

Hot green leaves waxy, waxing hot, shading cool beneath a torpid sun.

If only I could be still enough, my half reflection real enough, I could grow:

Down, down through safe roots,
Up. up branching, fraying into sheltering leaves.

If only I could be still enough, I'd not even wish to be a tree.

Instead I'd not worry, even as a bush.

Let me shrink without needing to think, or to know:
my not dissimilar lack of control.

Even then, I would not own me:
but instead be leased as a part and parcel of the land.

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