Winter Amnesties

Nothing of Ourselves

36 Nothing of Ourselves The glass glare of the pond, on a day All clouds abandon, gives back Nothing of ourselves. This might have been The world held up to us Had Adam not pared the apple, or Eve Not stood there idly coiling A red tress round her hand, eager to believe The split flicker of the serpent’s tongue, Invisible inscriptions on the air, As though the metaphor became What it called forth, a garden in which They walked as gods, not that Stifling paradise overlapped with lions That licked their feet, or eagles Screaming endearments in their ears, Even the vines too friendly, wanting To touch them at every turn—all Eden Tame and tangled, forgetful of its place! Now the inhuman eye of the pond Stares us down, a light relayed From the bright heavens, a blinding blue, As if these still waters still reflect An earth perfect under a sun That evens out the peaks and pits, leaving A level look on a flat land. ...