"All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books."
-Thomas Carlyle

by Daniel Morgan

Out here with just a sky of trees,
My daughter finds it hard to speak
What color is the sun since leaves
Turn here a gold, but there an airy green.

I tell her with what skill I know,
"The woods don't always leave a moral
As paintings or some poems go.
It's enough to visit as we grow."

But she has yet another parent
Who goads her on to far-fetched meanings
And tells her in a leafy palette,
Translucence must be made inherent.

"Or else why call a painting rare?
Or talk of gilded hues at all?
A poem has no need of rhyme
If meaning is not everywhere."

I winked, "Such correspondences
Were sure to make the streams take sides
Or start these oaks to growing pensive."
She winced to see me so dismissive.

Wishing not to condescend,
As I was lief to comfort her,
The pine trees bristled up on end.
Forthwith their colors now threatened

To stipple out a sylvan scene,
If the clouds were laid too low,
With a wild array of golds and greens
The sunset even now redeems.