I would basket the fruit for you,
from hidden houses behind leaves
and far boughs.
High on a tripod ladder, I reach,
and catalogue the fruit with ants
and roots and the mountain behind,
note the girth of the trunk
and the aguapunctual movement of water.
You drift like clouds,
and boughs that bend under sturdy shoes,
and leaves that might blow away.
All this I would gather
and show you, you are one,
the mountain and tree and sky,
the child in his aerie,
the fruit, hanging from the bough,
and fallen in the furrow.
I would show you, if
I lay truth in neat rows
for you to inspect as soldiers, then,
set each part to a living place again,
would you know
who you are and when?
Archived from September 1, 2007