a lake opened, then another lake
of light, then a pond of dark,
where the lark hid its beak
in a needle of wind.
In another place,
shaded by hunched elms,
meticulous ferns and weeds
have nothing to hide,
but the tadpoles drifting
on the black tide.
Under the water lintel of a ripple,
where all of the childhood’s stones
had fallen for years, trouts and carp
appeared, doing nothing,
from the yoke of the current,
in the stillness of abandon,
to the spell of silence.
As in a place
where the landscape ends,
the whole sky matched the emptiness.
I pressed my ear against a dead tree vein:
the hiss of bones burnt by breath
grief forever lodged in my ribs.