(For M.R.C.) 

She alighted like the tigerlily swallowtail,

On a misty afternoon breeze,

She danced like the delicate damselfly,

Lounged like the lingering lizard,

And sat in the low branches 

Of a mighty piñon pine,

Like a naked and downy young hawk

She climbed ever higher  

Into the dragon-like tree 

That has never left the stream’s side,

And there she was lost to me.

From her vantage a mere blink 

And an owl’s clock like hoot 

Between the long winter nights

And short spring days,

And as she lilts her needles in the breeze 

She is always quietly listening

To the wind and whistling of the birds,

The tap tap tapping of the golden flicker,

While all around her sturdy roots

The whole Sky Island world

Is gently washed away.

She went to the stream without seeking,

And the stream came willingly to her side

The way I did when she was the snowmelt 

That smooths the marbled granite,

Detaching atom by steadfast atom,

And pulling them, helpless and whooping, 

Into the alluvial flow

And to think I sought 

To bring her, there

Where she has forever, patiently,

Awaited my love.

Alan Ruiz Berman