Paradigm

Firm as young bones, fine as blown spume, still

As recognition,

The tree holds itself

In air, in water. It looks imaginary.

Yet is earthfast above the shelf, what's drowned

Is bound to the rooted tree by moonlight only.

No starer at its own ghost, no creature

Lost in belief and terror is standing there.

Stilly, a tree greets a tree equally

Still. It shares, or they grown one

Share the old elements: water, earth, air,

In ashwhite body and hair memory of fire.

And yet the tree and its light image look

Like nothing that our planet bears. They are those

Who know what men do not. The force of anguish,

Of delight, bite of ambition, are human, are not theirs.

They are set apart, and solitary, together

Plunged in pale night. They have no will

But recognition.

This is their only meaning.

Tree, tree in the darkness

Of air, of water. Still. And alone.