Imparting

I could give you space
a forest of space

where the canopy umbrellas
the trunks of trees so resolutely
that there are roots
that have never been touched by rain,
or wind, or human hands;
and it has been rumored
that when tigers and vultures
have shorn berries from the branches,
something in the seeds, or the skin
has sent them swiftly into sleep.

The streams here are teeming
with dim, flat fish
that neither jump, nor blink.
They merely breathe, and float:
round, slow bubble
after bubble rises,
bursting at the surface,
releasing an incomprehensible
sigh, or yawn;
while below,
their lazy fins
whisk past diamonds
which shimmer and outshine
dull pebbles entrenched
in the riverbed,
the brightest luminosity these fish
have ever seen
as hooks have never slashed
through these waters.

While wandering,
you could pause, and bathe
in an enormity
of silence.
You could abandon in the flush
of swinging vines, and waterfalls,
banana leaves and elephants.
You could traipse along
mossy, fallen logs
accompanied by lemon-tailed parrots.
You could devote
dense breadths of time
toward crushing perfume
from flowers.

And on the outskirts of the forest,
in a shadowy cabin,
I would miss you, patiently
with an unswerving reserve
of patience.

I would wait.
And if your limbs became
exhausted,
if your solitude gave way
to loneliness,
if you began to long
for the footing of floorboards
and the presence
of four fixed walls,

I would request of the rabbits
to guide you through the thickets,
past the willows
and the sleeping, snowy owls
around the mud pools
and the ditches

until my doorstep came into view.
You could walk across my lawn
knock upon my door,
and I would invite you in.

We could talk gently, quietly,
shades of daylight fading
from the bare, wooden walls
of my sparsely decorated rooms;
our voices wilting
like the fronds of ferns
folding in against the cold

and I would feign forgetfulness
as if the pads of your fingertips
had never reached
to smooth a strand
of hair
behind my earlobe,

as if your palms
had never pressed
beneath my cotton materials,
your lips imprinting your smile
along the slopes
of my forehead,
eyelids
and navel

as if distance could be
delicate;

as if forgiveness
could be so kind.

.