i
Moonfog Madrone stared at the Sun.
And the Sun gazed upon he.
“Tell me star, away so far,
What can you do for me?”
ii
And the Sun said: “I can boil the rivers and blast the land;
I can melt the peaks and glass the sand.”
Moofog laughed, “I’ve seen it before and will again.
No my friend, what’s in it for me?”
iii
And the Sun said: “Whatever god made you won’t allow you to die;
You go on forever and will even outlast me, I expect.
The perfect candidate to mock eternity:
An arrogance never to know the mercy of death.”
iv
The Sun fell below the distant range
And Moonfog laughed throughout the night
“He’s a poor old fool cursed to rule,
A toss of rocks for his own spite.”
Saragun Springs 
LA
I just had a detailed comment about this vaulted out into the ether, so I’m trying a shorter one for now to see if it goes through.
One of the things I talked about was how this poem seems to exist in multiple dimensions of time, at least four levels: today’s world, as well as the world of Victorian poetry (Tennyson and the Brownings), British Romantic poetry (Blake and Wordsworth, and Coleridge), and even further back, making it sound like some stand-alone chapter in a magic canticle the Druids might have chanted.
The fact that it can inhabit, and/or evoke, all these different layers of time simultaneously, including RIGHT NOW, in a mere handful of simple words gives this lasting power.
“Hello” to Moonfog! And “High!”
Dale
PS, The way the sun and the tree talk to each other also evokes, in a truly original way, none other than John Donne himself, or at least the profoundly original “conceits” of which Donne was capable…
There is massive complexity and many voltages of reality contained in the way they speak to each other…
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Hello Dale
Many thank yous! I like Moonfog the magic Madrone made of petrified wood.
The little worlds we are forced to inhabit are made a bit easier to survive with imagination. Of course it can be sad knowing that the universe allows much more dullness than delight. But maybe that is our own fault.
Thank you!
Leila
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Obla di Olba da life goes on and then it doesn’t.
Mr. Mirth
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Dear Doug
The “Reply” function wasn’t available for this in the other area, but I want to thank you for your comments on my Christina poems. Deeply appreciated.
Dale
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That’s because they met Bungalow Bill!
Thank you Doug,
Leila
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