I saw through the early morning haze
the poet huddled on the pier,
head bowed in meditation.
I guessed she waited
for her muse.
I looked for sunlight
to beam upon her head
or eerie breezes to coil
her hair around.
I watched.
She peered out at the lake,
raised a notebook from her lap
and wrote things down,
scratched things out.
and then she raised
binoculars to her eyes,
directing them at the far shore
where long blue herons
appeared among tall dark grasses.
Then I heard frogs
thing like loose guitar strings
and saw brown ducks
floating among lily pads
and insects making shallow wakes
on the surface of the lake.
And then I saw how she wove
each finely wrought strand
into enchanted baskets to hold
the unfolding of a crocus
or the mystery of all eternity,
and how sometimes it is hard
to tell the difference.
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