There is another world, but it is in this one.
—Paul Eluard

A woman can give herself
to the forest, to the aspen

as they tremble in their gold,
she can offer herself to the clear

mountain stream and to the watercress
that greens there and the two logs

that span the rivulet. She can know
at least for a moment that she is not

a separate thing—one with the swirl
in the unfolding clouds, one with spruce needles,

one with the rain. It doesn’t last,
that union, but it does. When she’s back

in the car or back in her room with her pile
of bills and her endless to-dos, some

part of her remembers what it was like
to open and open and open and again

she is unclosed and unbound, her particles
seated, her waves wandering.


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