Paper Birch for Elinor
The day after you
die
I go and lie down
where the paper birch
touches the
water,
reaches toward that other
birch
reflected and
remote,
the water not to be
crossed.
Nor will I cross to the
place
you’ve gone, just
yet.
But like the tree
limbs
longing downward
toward
the lake’s unforeseen
motions
I lean toward
you
dear friend, are you
there
in the water’s
doubling
of this
world?
Is the soul a watery
thing
or an ether, a
fire?
Are you happily
dissolved?
I’d like to
believe
in your
shimmering,
though I don’t know
what
I believe, other than
this
semblance of
you.
We both loved
trees.
Remember when we put our
arms
around the
ponderosas
in the San Jacinto
mountains?
And Yellowstone
when
lightning chased
us
among the charred
trees?
And the way you
walked
under southern
magnolias
in your
stories?
I would like to bring
you
to this paper birch at
sunset
the white bark
lit
like a rare manuscript
illuminated
at
the back of a cave,
only no letters or
glyphs
mark the lines
lightly
scored on the
trunk.
You would’ve
liked
this place. Perhaps you
do.
- Regina
O’Melveny
Posted: Wed - August 1, 2007 at 09:00 AM