Edward Steichen, Moonlight: The Pond, 1904-1906
Photogravure
Image Courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program
This will be easy, a little creek
with green foam at the edge.
Easy as saying, I think I see
something. Travel is a mirror
too small to swim in and a clock
that folds like a book. The whiskers
on a catfish let it taste the ground
before committing. See how easy?
Easier than the puzzle of trees
overhead. Their reflection is
another forest; what lives there is
different. And now a big truck
rattles past on a road you didn’t
know was so close. Without
seeing it, you can tell it’s an old
truck, that its gears are red
like clay. The catfish has eyes
sharp as thumbtacks, they see
the whole map easy as painting
a door, as stealing the brass
pull. It’s called a bloom each
summer, when the water wears
a hem of green. It can get so thick,
if something wanted to surprise you,
some dark caller made of eyes
wanted to swim up and put its
lips to you, it’d be easy. This
will be easier, a creekful of evening
pouring into the room, mumbling,
whiskers at your cheek. Easy
as forgetting the time.