And shimmering trees,
A range of colors, though the real ones can't be seen.
Sometimes the three dimensions
Pop out from the screen.
There is the known here:
The ducks that preen in estuary reeds,
The peeled pink bark of ficus trees,
The fishing poles on bicycle wheels.
And if what lies beyond
Clings to its mystery,
We know it's always there,
When we are ready ...
When the cost of staying outweighs
The fare to go:
The exquisite bungalows,
The ripening magnolias,
So little will be remembered
Of those who stayed here,
But, oh, it seems that there's too much
Grief to ever let us go.
