Over the hill
she came,
her long legs
very scarcely
touching the ground,
the cups of her ears
listening,
with obvious pleasure,
to the wind
as it stroked
the dark arms
of the pines;
once or twice
she lingered
and browsed
some moist patch
of half-wrapped leaves,
then came along
to where I was—
or nearly—
and then, among the thousand bodies
of the trees,
their splashes of light and their shadows,
she was gone;
and I, who was heavy that day
with thoughts as small as my whole life
would ever be,
and especially
compared to the thousand shining trees,
gave thanks to whatever sent her
in my direction
that I might see, and strive to be,
as clearly she was,
beyond sorrow,
careless, soft-lipped angel
walking on air.