Mt. Constitution: From the Summit
Some morning when
mist is thin like pale tea,
you will reach a forest
where moss
is so shrill a silver green
and the blue of spruce limbs vibrates
so loud and low
that, as quiet steeps
you in the damp
your soul dissolves, finds
mine suspended there;
looking down, I read it
in the leaves.




Cyd Harrell, 1989.
Published Oxygen Quarterly No. 19. Further rights reserved.
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