Microcosm - Jan 4 2021

 

Microcosm

Jan 4 2021

Early morning,

and the last wisps of mist

are rising off the lake,

suspended

above its still reflective face.

That liminal place

between limitless sky

and the weight of water;

progressively thinning air

that soon will empty into space,

and the lake

filling its container

with the force of liquid attraction.

A 2-dimensional world,

where little insects

scurry about their business,

or freeze in place

as if stillness

could render them unseen.

I see them poised

on impossibly thin, stilt-like legs,

each tip

in a tiny depression

in the smooth reflective surface,

impervious molecular bonds

flexing like a trampoline.

A small branch of a branch

the wind has broken off

is also embedded

in the brightly mirrored glass,

which clings to the edges

as if holding it in place

on tautly drawn stays.

And a featherweight leaf

with its ends curling upward

and middle barely touching;

a nifty little vessel

becalmed at sea,

waiting for the next soft breeze

to catch its sails.

I see this

in the early morning calm

sitting by the water's edge.

A precious moment in time

before the sun rises

and the air warms

and convection roils the surface

breaking its glass,

turning it dark and rough and porous.

Submerging

that 2 dimensional world

of perfect stillness

and infinitesimal things.

So much beauty

in small orders of magnitude.

In the transient, and precarious.

In simply stopping to look

and taking careful note.

I found myself very taken by both the imagery and the craftsmanship in today's offering of The Writer's Almanac. I live on a small lake, and have the privilege of swimming here each summer. I've watched the same tiny objects held in the glass-like surface tension of a calm day, observed the jewel-like delicacy of dragonflies.

I love the clever ending, because it not only calls on a bookish person's familiar frame of reference, but because it speaks to the importance of close observation. Of taking note. Of not just seeing, but of looking. And does so beautifully, by showing instead of saying. Close observation and microcosm are both often key elements in my version of lyric poetry.

And I especially admire his simplicity of language and easy conversational tone.

The surfacing swimmer immediately reminded me of those wildlife documentaries where the camera lens is horizontally bisected by the water line: so we see kind of a fish-eye view of our familiar terrestrial world above, and a somewhat alien pelagic world below. I saw that line as this liminal 2-dimensional place that exists for a short time when conditions are right, and is governed by its own physical laws. How life fills every niche available. How, in this order of magnitude, it's even possible to walk on water.

His piece, of course, illuminates the weakness in mine. He is economical and distilled, trusting his reader to see it for herself. He says one thing and he says it simply. While I can't seem to get over the need to hold the reader's hand and spell everything out. I know less is more. But it's still not easy for me!

 

Field Guide

by Tony Hoagland

 

Once, in the cool blue middle of a lake,

up to my neck in that most precious element of all,

 

I found a pale-gray, curled-upwards pigeon feather

floating on the tension of the water

 

at the very instant when a dragonfly,

like a blue-green iridescent bobby pin,

 

hovered over it, then lit, and rested.

That’s all.

 

I mention this in the same way

that I fold the corner of a page

 

in certain library books,

so that the next reader will know

 

where to look for the good parts.