There are lakes that go down a thousand feet,
and here, leaf mold and mud how deep?
But only the soul knows.
We look across the shiny surface,
the ripples this way and that,
and the soul measures, dives down,
finds its depths.
I must be a snapping turtle, burrowing deep.
My soul snaps onto my fingertip,
when it hungers, when meaning has gone dry.
My soul rests in the fathomless deep,
hungry, pulling my life this way and that,
I must be a catfish, with my long whiskers
stirring my own ancient soup over and over,
pulling together each scrap of events,
wanting that placidity, that mirror calmness.
Gazing across the reflective surface, I see swimmers!
Dark beings unseen until now.
Happy and dark as ducks, they paddle
across the surface of my soul.
How have I created these?
What ancient magic of my days came forth
to paddle across my dark waters?
Annelinde Metzner copyright 2009