Lake

All is quiet in the olive green larders; the

enamel beaded, unlidded eye surveys

realms of dim sunlight between the long

spindling stems trailing forever downward

into the deepening murk, the pitch darkness

where vague stirrings, unexpected presences

and frequent disappearances deter.

Above, languorous leaves burgle the light;

all day, all night, shiver wave, occasionally

convulse; calm or turbulent, the leaves and

surface above them eternally synchronous.

All is evening quiet through the patchwork

of fields on the drumlins beneath a different sky;

the humming of farm machinery has ceased,

the farmers are deep in their dinner conversations

beside kitchen windows full of lush grass, moving

clouds and hustled along sunshine. How delicate

must be their mark in this, the world around

the other world, the world of discrepant life.