Arctic Carving by Pat Lowther
They say it's country of dream:
so few go there
a cold place inside us
the body can't convert
There light falls in separate flakes
into the world mesh
Creation of all things
spreads outward
And there a man who had
never seen trees
was visited by trees of ivory
shaping themselves against his knife
No leaves suggested themselves
only rudiments of branching
only the blunt pure shapes
essence of trees
where like the mind at point zero
a white bird rested
