Early, the world's
not yet congealed,
the hills all mist,
a yellow, solid tree conjured
from fog as I come near.
It seems all matter's
malleable. I could
re-sculpt this world,
but perfect as it is —
the beauty of the line of hills
so perfect as to make me weep —
there's nothing to amend,
and by the time I think
to shape my life anew
from such soft tallow,
clear day's already
got things set.
Yet each new day, I note, is born
with wet, unfolding wings.
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/early/
