Hark, my love!
It’s a little tree
onto that hillside
Look at it glow,
sun chasing luminance
eyes chasing the sky
That tree don’t care one bit that its hill is a mountain
Made of cement and steel
And the labor of many men
Not the long labor of the tides
And the hills
And the rivers of ice
Calling their way home
It’s dancing now, in the morning wind
And every now and again some small glowing white shape
Deigns to join it
A ghost of ideas long past
Or clump of sand
Or plastic bag, the hubris of days long ago
At this distance, who can say
Dream, dream dream, little tree