Friday, June 17, 1998
"You always see something, but
you never see it all."--Ruskin
From a train window,
receding trees draw themselves into
soft hills, and hills themselves
diminish to furred spines of
mixtures of haze and blur
unintelligible to the eye alone.
Could these be the same trees
you remember from walks on stony
their bark-crusted trunks
and dark, unreachable branches?
The eyes fail, and memory alone
can tell of the trunks and rocks
that are the hidden bones
of those faraway hills.