A shock of yellow flecks the side of distant crags, their gray spread thin by palette knife against a wash of layered blue.
The cliffs stand firm as up-close aspens
pass us by in bright parade and wave their leafy coins,
all trembling light, then fall away.
I could reach out and touch their trunks; so close we swing
to let by all the hundred cars that crowd this tight paved road
and snake through flame-lit slopes. Instead
I slump against the seatbelt, fingers pressed to pounding temple,
stomach rolling, gaze fixed straight as
color rushes,
traffic pushes,
endless trees rise up, recede.
I was not made for motored motion, holding on
as beauty blurs in the periphery.
No. Let me stop.
I’d stand on ancient dirt in dappled air to hear
the wooded whispers overhead.
If I could spin one spotted leaf and somehow
breathe in deep the misty light
would it come real? All of it—
This briefest flash before the dimming.
If I stood completely still
Would it be real?
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