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.
