Poems, 1957–1967

WINTER TROUT

WINTER TROUT In the concrete cells of the hatchery He nourished a dream of living Under the ice, the long preparations For the strange heat of feeling slowly Roofs melt to a rhythmic green, But now, in the first cold of freedom, Riding motionless under the road Of ice, shaping the heart Of the buried stream with his tail, He knows that his powers come From the fire and stillness of freezing. With the small tremors of his form The banks shift imperceptibly, Shift back, tremble, settle, Shift, all within utter stillness. I keep in my quiver now An arrow whose head is half-missing. It is useless, but I will not change The pulled, broken tooth of its head For I have walked upon banks Shaken with the watchfulness of trout Like walking barefoot in sleep On the swaying tips of a grainfield, On the long, just-bending stems, Almost weightless, able to leap Great distances, yet not leaping Because each step on that ground Gave a new sense of limitless hope. Under the ice the trout rode, Trembling, in the mastered heart Helmets 127 Of the creek, with what he could do. I set myself up as a statue With a bow, my red woolen back Climbed slowly by thoughtful brambles And dead beggar-lice, to shoot At an angle down through the shadow Of ice, and spear the trout With a shot like Ulysses' Through the ax heads, with the great weapon. I shot, and the trout did not move But was gone, and the banks Went rigid under my feet As the arrow floated away Under the paving of ice. I froze my right hand to retrieve it As a blessing or warning, As a sign of the penalties For breaking into closed worlds Where the wary controllerslie At the heart of their power, A pure void of shadowy purpose Where the gods live, attuning the world, Laying plans for the first green They ever have lived, to melt The ice from their great crowns. Their secret enemies break Like statues, as the king rises slowly, Keeping only the thinnest film Of his element—imagination— Before his eyes as he lifts Into spring, with the wood upside down Balanced perfectly in all its leaves 128 And roots as he deeply has All winter made provision for, The surface full of gold flakes Of the raw undersides of leaves, And the thing seen right, For once, that winter bought. Helmets 129 ...