I would choose tree or stone. Ancient tree
that would be tall and expansive.
Otherwise, a miniature painting,
distillation of brilliance. If we could hold in our hands
such things as the disappearing train, the meadow
just below snowline, the unspoken love that falls short
of pallid dreams, if we could know such things as equal
to our own skin and pulse, there might be greater ease
to the hours we're given. And how to escape
into the flesh of the tree, stillness of stone,
would become less urgent, only a fragment
of the yearnings we're shackled with
as we stumble about under a scarred and lovely sky.

Volume 2, Issue 1, 2007