The Tallest Things Of All Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lowly pageantries in the tangles of a cypress forest
Combed down,
So silent maiden trees lie across the purring backs
Of the mountain lions
Sleeping with the narcoleptic lumberjacks—
Like words in a coil of sleep with other words,
Neither caring how they are spelled as their young
Are raised like orphans in other nests
And classrooms of a jigsaw puzzle all a tumble
At school—
Or your sweet young mother of wife, yawning before
She goes into the kitchen to fry up some eggs
And from her peripheral vision spies
The lonely séance of the starving Christmas tree:
Well then, the long lines of the legs of
The feline huntress will usher up to the very outlines
Of the canals,
And she will bask there in her sorority underneath
The mountains of the moon
Which they say for certain are the tallest things of all.