Lake Alan: Summer, 1954

Here the turtle,

darkly green and old

As the snagged green depth,

crawls, shining, upon a stone,

The armored smile

beneath his eyes.

Around him swim

the lily's floating planes.

One pale swirl blooms

unfolding in its cup

A staff of gold.

Far off

a locust sings,

Its famished sound straight as a perfect arrow

Through the trees.

A branch drops,

A tiny crystal leaps to meet it,

falls,

As if in a last embrace.

The moving rings

Create a sparkling tomb

spreading

and softly singing

Over the crystal's brightest reach,

the cove

And etchings of the diffident fish,

the released

Illuminations of the spider's walk,

And out upon the total glowing water,

Flowing across the clouds and sky

and glassed-in, sailing birds,

Enclosing in its endless line at last

The turtle and the lily

intensely basking

by their nearer shore.

Not the smallest word, the turtle's claw

Or voice, the lily's purest petal,

Contrives the world.