Mountains are moving, rivers
are hurrying. But we
are still.
We have the thoughts of giants--
clouds, and at night the stars.
And we have names-- guttural, grotesque--
Hamet, Og-- names with no syllables.
And perish, one by one, our roots
gnawed by the mice. And fall.
And are too slow for death, and change
to stone. Or else too quick,
like candles in a fire. Giants
are lonely. We have waited long
for someone. By our waiting, surely
there must be someone at whose touch
our boughs would bend; and hands
to gather us; a spirit
to whom we are light as the hawthorn tree.
O if there is a poet
let him come now! We stand at the Pacific
like great unmarried girls,
turning in our heads the stars and clouds,
considering whom to please.
-- Louis Simpson
Submitted by Gloria Pipkin
