One of my curious obsessions is with the colours that sunlight makes when coming through a forest canopy. This poem is only another example of many on this subject, and I doubt it will be the last.
The sunlight, viscous as pine pitch, enfolds
The wold’s vain, struggling, insect limbs, and holds
Them fast, though frantic still, as sap-light sets
To amber hardness, and transluscence lets
This moment keep its frenzied, golden poise,
Though time all other things destroys.