In its web I see the mountains
swell with slow rhythmic oscillations
in a sea of sky and waves of breaking clouds.
I listen to the leaves—
those that fall, those that persist
on their dichotomy of stems—
Dissection never reveals the whole.
The fragile rings hide their slender strength,
as the trees abide the sultry air,
brandishing their rattling bassinets
in Spring and in the throes of Autumn
drop their dappled dress exposed.
This is the fineness that holds me
here, fibers that vibrate from my searching
for the words to describe them,
words, like houses made of trees,
that let the winds play at their doors,
and let the windowed light know where I am.
~Richard Maxson, from “A Green and Yellow Basket” in Molly and the Thieves
There are no words for this light, for this color, for this richness
so I simply dwell within it, failing to describe it.
I can’t stop looking, can’t stop breathing it in.
How is it dying is so glorious that it makes me gasp at being alive?