out from under its plumped-upness
a snapping turtle
pokes its head and
munches a morsel of water-lily leaf.
The sky
falls down in bits and pieces.
Does the face
of the pond
show the level of the water table?
Mebbe yes,
mebbe no.
A girl
no,
an ironwood tree
stands there
so young, so sinewy and slim
as though soft-water rinses were
all it ever wanted.
A branch
heavily shifts
its leaves.
Something—
a frog?—
goes plop.
The rough-cut grass,
stuck randomly
with flowers,
accepts the world's shampoo.
by James Schuyler (1923 - 1991)
