Parowan Canyon

　　by David Lee

　　 When granite and sandstone begin to blur and flow， the eye rests on cool white aspen.

　　 Strange， their seeming transparency. How as in a sudden flash one remembers a forgotten name， so the recollection. Aspen.

　　 With a breeze in them， their quiet rhythms，

　　 shimmering， quaking. Powder on the palm.

　　 Cool on the cheek. Such delicacy the brittle wood， limbs snapping at a grasp， whole trees tumbling in the winds.

　　 Sweet scent on a swollen afternoon. Autumn， leaves falling one upon another， gold rains upon a golden earth. How at evening when the forest darkens， aspen do not.

　　 And a white moon rises and silver stars point toward the mountain， darkness holds them so pale.

　　 They stand still， very still.