by Richard Le Mon

That bit of turn that takes the sun
down, finally, must be earth’s quickest;
I almost feel the extra opening of my eyes
taking in the last light
and then the first—the winks
of white that start
their gradual shaping of the hills.
Night’s distortion draws the far crest
nearer; the jeweled homes of strangers
seem close enough to grasp.

But this lone pine, a shadow now
of ragged lines that used to stand these hills,
holds true our sad perspective;
for though it almost blocks the view
it tasks the muscles of our eyes,
holds reign on wandering farsight
and keeps the needles’ balance still—
of what we will
and what we will not have.