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