I’m on chilled mountaintop
dreaming of hot desert.
Or a mile into the salt marsh,
I wish it were clear and blue.
Absurd I know,
but pines, to me,
are so pigheaded
in their refusal to be palms.
And the more the river
curls and threads,
the more it is not ocean
and, up ahead,
a shoal of rapids
pummels feelings for dry land.
Copper leaves
should be green
and green, copper.
And why not wolf lullabies
and warbler howls.
It’s not as if I want
nature to be human.
But why can’t
something mindless
change its mind?
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