by David Lee
When granite and sandstone begin to blur and flow， the eye rests on cool white aspen.
Strange， their seeming transparency. How as in a sudden flash one remembers a forgotten name， so the recollection. Aspen.
With a breeze in them， their quiet rhythms，
shimmering， quaking. Powder on the palm.
Cool on the cheek. Such delicacy the brittle wood， limbs snapping at a grasp， whole trees tumbling in the winds.
Sweet scent on a swollen afternoon. Autumn， leaves falling one upon another， gold rains upon a golden earth. How at evening when the forest darkens， aspen do not.
And a white moon rises and silver stars point toward the mountain， darkness holds them so pale.
They stand still， very still.
When granite and sandstone begin to blur and flow， the eye rests on cool white aspen.
Strange， their seeming transparency. How as in a sudden flash one remembers a forgotten name， so the recollection. Aspen.
With a breeze in them， their quiet rhythms，
shimmering， quaking. Powder on the palm.
Cool on the cheek. Such delicacy the brittle wood， limbs snapping at a grasp， whole trees tumbling in the winds.
Sweet scent on a swollen afternoon. Autumn， leaves falling one upon another， gold rains upon a golden earth. How at evening when the forest darkens， aspen do not.
And a white moon rises and silver stars point toward the mountain， darkness holds them so pale.
They stand still， very still.