A child begins owning
the lake,
its lifting haunt in morning,
its sun-slapped birds. Begins
to own the rud
that coats evening,
sunsets hinged
behind the gap to the west. Begins
owning the islet that floats offshore,
boulder-pinned.
She upends smaller stones,
plucks innocent snails. She claims
the islet’s frogs and the ribbits of frogs,
moves the stirring lumps.
Owns the waves
and the far shore that looses them. Owns
water lilies bobbing beneath the far-end bridge,
yards them out, lays them in layers
on the rowboat’s wet floor.
She owns water weeds that yank at her feet,
tadpoles butting, which she collects, black leeches,
which she salts.
And the monastery across the lake,
which she can’t see, does she own it as well?
And the reservation across the lake,
completely unknown?
The duck blind near the point, she claims.
And lapping sounds.
And darning needles
switching blue, and rapiers of grass,
the briny pong, the smart of slime that chokes
the small elbowed bay.
And the lake. The lake
begins owning
the child, carves its winged shape
into her young,
green-stick bones, into places there
where holiness will soak,
and a loneliness she can’t hope to shake.