LITTLE ANODYNES Whenever this pine appears to me, I might yet become that dawn light on its trunk, the seasons in its needles that apply each day as acupuncture and voodoo. I might yet accompany the blue freighted with clouds as only evergreen can in stillness and learn the messages, if any, coded in crows. Dread may not then press its thumb behind my knee, nor snowdrifts heap onto nearly-forgotten drifts, grays defied with a cologned cheek. The ache in white water honing a canyon night may no longer approximate my portion of longing. I am indulged, as if all my friends could gather. Seduced, as if death kept our promises. This pine and I stand, neither worthy of the other, and the stirrings of the shade remind me of the vertigo from rising too quickly to our own height. --Morrill
Posted on: Wed, 19 Jun 2013 14:28:49 +0000
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