Never visiting the giant sequoias

At some point the feet stop itching
and the plans fade away
The daydreaming stops;
only the furniture is moved.

The occasional picture
is lingered over. But no
longing tugs the heart,
no sighs come forth.

It is enough now to imagine
the immensity, the immortality,
the towering stillness, made
fragile by birdsong.

A little later, emptiness.
Not hollow, but content.
The love-child of memory
and imagination, telling us

We have seen them after all.

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