As I Choose

As I Choose

Here in my bed
Lying
And feeling my lips
In that rigid set
I've seen
On the dead,
I start,
With a quiver -
So will I be

Arranged, dressed,
Combed -
In quiet composition
Me on my bed

Sleep is a private
Thing,
Do I snore, my
Eyeballs rove
In dreams -
Do I lie
In unguarded repose -
As I choose
My waking and moving

So I
My privacy
When I am gone
From me

If I were a tree
Which would I choose?
Should I be a willow
Beside a chuckling brook?
First in Spring,
The breezes would sing
In my long green hair.

Or, how lovely to be
A cherry tree
In a froth and foam of pink.
Everyone would think me
Dressed for a party.

Or perhaps a spreading maple
Children would savor
My syrup and sugar,
And my red leaves in the fall
Would be the cheeriest of all.

But when December comes
I might choose to be
A pine tree in feathery green
Promising that winter winds
Will soften, and greening come again.

A poise of time becalmed,
Now balanced on
The fulcrum of the year.
How subtly does

The rhythm change
And slant of sun reverse.
So at the full,
A destiny of dearth.

It's awe to find

The solid substance

The residues left behind,

Metamorphosed by time.

The shelly dwelling
Of some secluded snail
Intact, a pearly luster retained
As though he sheltered still therein.

The fossil discovered,
Its petrified perfection
Waited through centuries
For some chance perception
To observe its mystery.

And rocks - fused,
Immutable, since Eons before
The Planet boiled and pressed
Them in its furnace
Now mute evidence

Of Earth's old
Transforming fires.
Such common things
To those who ask no questions.

Grief screams strident
Sobs, choking,
Low in her throat

Whispers palely
Down the quiet corridor

Sinks weary, at last,
And still under the sifting
Dust of slow time

All her tears dried
To salty rime.

By Ruth Frost