Nor glass nor stainless steel now comes between
My wide eyes and their vision steeped in sleep –
Of things that live yet live divorced from life.
Could I, a child of ponds where water forms
And plants wave, prosper in this lovely death?
Perhaps in cold so perfect that time stops
And matter disappears, the tender void
Would bend to nurture life in rippling pools
Of hydrogen; would pause to touch her lips
To polished quarried slabs of frozen air.
The black where dust chokes off far starlight seems
As real a thing as blue-white spark of stars;
This silence freights slight whispers, and the knife
Of space itself cuts soft as a cocoon.
From The Elven Lands by William Illsey Atkinson
Copyright © 2010