the heaviness the clouds are always casting
in pewter ridges, would there be a doubt
our temporary life is everlasting?
Our temporary life, the one with days
and weather and a future made of same,
of springtimes, noontimes, new beginnings, ends,
till we don't see the water for itself,
the image for the thing that isn't there:
not the towel on the plastic chair,
not the paddle propped on the canoe,
or the trout at sunset rising to
the bait of a mosquito,
but everything that these and we suggest:
ideas, forms, abstractions, qualities
that hover somewhere over them like haze.