Which Is Where We Are Now

So startled to see
 vibrancy:
the full tender flesh
of the flowers;
proud colors
present themselves
before the overcast sky
faithfully to the sun.
Fragile,
these fall days;
about to tumble…
 the wind wisps about me.
I see a tree struck
 by lightening;
a cloven branch clings to the trunk, 
its leaves at my feet, curling with burning crimson.
I gaze up and blink
at the tree’s green leaves.

Though it’s getting late in the day,
 shall I skip over to the lake?
My years do not count
 like those of a child.
I go to the lake, overjoyed
 to see the sun has not set.
The sunlight dances completely
 from one side to the other;
 the entire breadth is shimmering:
 the glory of the dancing sunrays on the water.
That is what these fall days provide:
 an extended lifespan
 and, then, to finally see
 the naked tree
 revealed in the light.

I saw a beautiful floating thing
 rock–leaf–floaty, hovering
 just beneath the surface of the pond.
My heart gazed;
 my romance
 always on
 “It is perhaps a piece of trash;
  don’t be open.”
I gazed
 sunken rock, gold leaf, floating submerged
Then I saw it:
 a turtle’s head poking out of the water
 breathing with the whole pond,
 breathing my breath,
 so cute and innocent
 at once my love was explained.
One turtle in the whole pond
 breathing in air for the whole pond,
 poking its head out to connect
 the underneath with the forest.
Floating in earnest little grace
 and so picturesque
I grabbed and shook my phone.
  “You are going to miss him.
   He will go should you take
    his picture.”
I took it.
 He was not in it,
  just a pond and woods
   so picturesque if there would
    be a little turtle in the middle of it.
I gazed
 and saw the turtle unchanged
 and as I delighted
  he ducked his head down;
 a ring emanated over the pond
 and a little bloop where his head had been
 — gone.
I looked back at the picture.
 He was there; his head
 one little speck.
 The sublime floating gold
  unseen
 hidden by the pond’s reflection
  of the sky.

I talked with some people there;
 they had seen the turtle, too.

The best words
 hold aloft
  that glimpse of self
   shining through, unraveling
    ensnaring words.

I relished your boyish whimsy:
wanting, at one and the same time,
to do no evil and to index everything.

I snapped at a shrub to give to you,
 wondering if you would tell me
 whether it was shrouded
 in those same leaves of old
 that crown a good sauce.
You guffawed and tutored me
 to consider man–made products:
 I would do well to avoid flowers and puppies.

I lay in a patch of Quaker Ladies
 near the water
 as the Spring gusts
 garnished me with pollen.
I strolled barefoot home in the mud
 as the rain came.
You turned white when I asked
 the meaning of Stockton Gala Days;
you produced the most delicious drops
 of technicolor: something in the
 red, green, and blue pixels
 of your blank screen shinning through
  the ensnared dew
 still waiting to connect
 technology to nature.
I longed to turn you around
 to give you a picture of yourself,
 but then the moment would have been lost
 and somehow the algorithms that embed
 don’t capture it all.

Once upon a time,
 just blobs of cold.
We know better now
 our modern sensibilities understanding
each flake:
a little bit of dust
 through hot and cold
  from such great heights,
a natural growth of
 crystalline nature
 unique through its travels
 often imperfect
 its simple structure
  making it glaringly obvious,
melting on human contact.