The cold creek consulted by birdsong continues
Downhill all the way, finer, faster silver trails
Like those left by the eternal snails under moss
Threading and dividing beyond fronds' perceptions.
It's an old story, imagination before
Any story's descent in clinging wraiths of mists,
The original wonder of a guarded world
One was not made for, cannot be, cannot enter.
It lasts forever, this continuous shifting
That distinguishes things it erases, this thought
Of the north as a march of woods in face of ice,
The ice forever receding from the forests
That are darker than the blue brilliance they replace.
Yes, it's only a one-ended bridge. Yes, only
A metaphor for a world with no metaphors.