By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 11/1/07

In these civilized inflations of the self,
We walk large among things that are small,
A whole mountain compact enough to fit
In a window frame. But there is a tree,
Near to us in the frame, insistent, with shining leaves,
With sprays of seed, purple filigree on orange stems,
And seeing these nurseries of the fantastic,
We suddenly shrink down into the abdomen’s chamber
Where a gold figure, strangely familiar,
Awaits us. The figure is not framed,
Can never be framed, and when she or he touches us,
Our inflation ceases and true growth begins.
How small the body and how short even the span
Of a single life becomes, here in the fathomless seed,
Where the mountain has risen to spin with the spinning stars!

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