Prosaic

It may not be poetry, but it is engraved beautifully on a jade tablet. Everything here is green; I squat on a mossy rock, next to a cool green brook. In this forest are fish, and deer, and foxes, but most of all, green.

I have chosen not to write poetry, but prose. Look at the mineral complexity, the crystal clarity of the stone! Look at how it suppresses reflection but glows in the light! It is like water locked in time, but not frozen.

Brightness and levity, held down by gravity. Why do we not see such things when they are passing by? Are we so old now?