as close as we're ever likely to get

        Somewhere between what it feels like, to be at 

one with the sea, and to understand the sea as 

mere context for the boat whose engine refuses 

finally to turn over: yeah, I know the place—

stumbled into it myself, once; twice, almost. All 

around and in between the two trees that 

grow there, tree of compassion and—much taller—

tree of pity, its bark more bronze, the snow 

        settled as if an openness of any kind meant, as well, 

a woundedness that, by filling it, the snow 

might heal.... You know what I think? I think if we're 

lost, you should know exactly where, by now; I've 

watched you stare long and hard enough at the map 

already... I'm beginning to think I may never 

not be undecided, about all sorts of things: whether 

snow really does resemble the broken laughter 

        of the long abandoned when what left comes back 

big-time; whether gratitude's just a haunted 

space like any other. This place sounds daily 

more like a theater of war, each time I listen to it—

loss, surprise, victory, being only three of the countless 

fates, if you want to call them that, that we don't 

so much live with, it seems, as live for now among. If as 

close as we're ever likely to get, you and I, is this—this close—  

 

[Carl Phillips {1959- } 'The Way One Animal Trusts Another', from Wild is the Wind]