And the place
was water
Fish
fowl
flood
water lily mud
My life
in the leaves and on water
My mother and I
born
in swale and swamp and sworn
to water
My father
thru marsh fog
sculled down
from high ground
saw her face
at the organ
bore the weight of lake water
and the cold—
he seined for carp to be sold
that their daughter
might go high
on land
to learn
Saw his wife turn
deaf
and away
She
who knew boats
and ropes
no longer played
She helped him string out nets
for tarring
And she could shoot
He was cool
to the man
who stole his minnows
by night and next day offered
to sell them back
He brought in a sack
of dandelion greens
if no flood
No oranges—none at hand
No marsh marigold
where the water rose
He kept us afloat
I mourn her not hearing canvasbacks
their blast-off rise
from the water
Not hearing sora
rails’s sweet
spoon-tapped waterglass-
descending scale-
tear-drop-tittle
Did she giggle
as a girl?
His skiff skimmed
the coiled celery now gone
from these streams
due to carp
He knew duckweed
fall-migrates
toward Mud Lake bottom
Knew what lay
under leaf decay
and on pickerel weeds
before summer hum
To be counted on:
new leaves
new dead
leaves
He could not
—like water bugs—
stride surface tension
He netted
loneliness
As to his bright new car
my mother—her house
next his—averred:
A hummingbird
can’t haul
Anchored here
in the rise and sink
of life—
middle years’ nights
he sat
beside his shoes
rocking his chair
Roped not “looped
in the loop
of her hair”
I grew in green
slide and slant
of shore and shade
Child-time—wade
thru weeds
Maples to swing from
Pewee-glissando
sublime
slime-
song
Grew riding the river
Books
at home-pier
Shelley could steer
as he read
I was the solitary plover
a pencil
for a wing-bone
From the secret notes
I must tilt
upon the pressure
execute and adjust
In us sea-air rhythm
“We live by the urgent wave
of the verse”
Seven year molt
for the solitary bird
and so young
Seven years the one
dress
for town once a week
One for home
faded blue-striped
as she piped
her cry
Dancing grounds
my people had none
woodcocks had—
backland-
air around
Solemnities
such as what flower
to take
to grandfather’s grave
unless
water lilies—
he who’d bowed his head
to grass as he mowed
Iris now grows
on fill
for the two
and for him
where they lie
How much less am I
in the dark than they?
Effort lay in us
before religions
at pond bottom
All things move toward
the light
except those
that freely work down
to oceans’ black depths
In us an impulse tests
the unknown
river rising—flood
Now melt and leave home
Return—broom wet
naturally wet
Under
soak-heavy rug
water bugs hatched—
no snake in the house
Where were they?—
she
who knew how to clean up
after floods
he who bailed boats, houses
Water endows us
with buckled floors
You with sea water running
in your veins sit down in water
Expect the long-stemmed blue
speedwell to renew
itself
O my floating life
Do not save love
for things
Throw things
to the flood
ruined
by the flood
Leave the new unbought—
all one in the end—
water
I possessed
the high word:
The boy my friend
played his violin
in the great hall
On this stream
my moonnight memory
washed of hardships
maneuvers barges
thru the mouth
of the river
They fished in beauty
It was not always so
In Fishes
red Mars
rising
rides the sloughs and sluices
of my mind
with the persons
on the edge
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