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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395317" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Perch</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a fork in a branch<br>of an ancient, enormous maple,<br>one of a grove of such trees,<br>where I climb sometimes and sit and look out<br>over miles of valleys and low hills.<br>Today on skis I took a friend<br>to show her the trees. We set out<br>down the road, turned in at<br>the lane which a few weeks ago,<br>when the trees were almost empty<br>and the November snows had not yet come,<br>lay thickly covered in bright red<br>and yellow leaves, crossed the swamp,<br>passed the cellar hole holding<br>the remains of the 1850s farmhouse<br>that had slid down into it by stages<br>in the thirties and forties, followed<br>the overgrown logging road<br>and came to the trees. I climbed up<br>to the perch, and this time looked<br>not into the distance but at<br>the tree itself, its trunk<br>contorted by the terrible struggle<br>of that time when it had its hard time.<br>After the trauma it grows less solid.<br>It may be some such time now comes upon me.<br>It would have to do with the unaccomplished,<br>and with the attempted marriage<br>of solitude and happiness. Then a rifle<br>sounded, several times, quite loud,<br>from across the valley, percussions<br>of the custom of male mastery<br>over the earth -- the most graceful,<br>most alert of the animals<br>being chosen to die. I looked<br>to see if my friend had heard,<br>but she was stepping about on her skis,<br>studying the trees, smiling to herself,<br>her lips still filled, for all<br>we had drained them, with hundreds<br>and thousands of kisses. Just then<br>she looked up -- the way, from low<br>to high, the god blesses -- and the blue<br>of her eyes shone out of the black<br>and white of bark and snow, as lovers<br>who are walking on a freezing day<br>touch icy cheek to icy cheek,<br>kiss, then shudder to discover<br>the heat waiting inside their mouths.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Galway+Kinnell">Galway Kinnell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395317" data-title="The Perch de Galway Kinnell" data-description="There is a fork in a branch
of an ancient, enormous maple,
one of a grove of such trees,
where I climb sometimes and sit and look out
over miles of valleys and low hills.
Today on skis I took a friend
to show her the trees. We set out
down the roa..."></div>
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