The Art of Imitation

THE ART OF IMITATION /Pattiann Rogers Hasn't the river poplar learned so well to mold itself To that blowing branch-shaped vacancy existing Inside a flickering summer by the bank? And hasn't the moon copied perfectly the lake's dark Dream of possessing a circular stone of brilliance In each and every wave? The bud of the fire pink has obviously shaped itself Without error or deviation to a coming pleasure In red, and the peeper, climbing the leatherleaf Beside the pond, has arranged itself to fit precisely The pearlescent sound of spring's origination. Joy must have been here first, from the beginning. How else could the cat, in an ecstacy of leaps And skitterings and pounces across the windy, Leaf-littered lawn, have emulated exactly The intricate and exalted motions of delight? And charity and creation, like gloves, Must always have had five finger-shells apiece Into which the soul could form the flesh and bones Of its double dexterity. A small white egret alone, gliding at eye-level Over the mown field, long neck curved inward, legs Held straight back and pressed along its body, Has so perfectly imitated the sailing bone And grace and gut and motivation of redemption That someone watching today might be tempted To say and believe: The only name it ever had Was savior. The Missouri Review · 29 ...