(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