Crossing

Here’s how poet, Sylvia Plath, put it about sixty years ago:

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Crossing The Water

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.

Where do the black trees go that drink here?

Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.

Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:

They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.

The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.

A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.

Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?

This is the silence of astounded souls.

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Not bad, right? Especially that part of the “silence of astounded souls.”

By contrast, all the astounded souls who crossed the water last evening made lots of noise—enough, in fact, to cause the purple-haired park ranger to contact Bellevue’s finest for a look-see.

Good news, however: the shenanigans of (chronological, if not psychological) adults pale in comparison to those performed by teenagers, who literally flip heads over heels from great heights while their elders do so only metaphorically.  Interest on the part of the authorities wanes, therefore, pretty quickly when the divers depart.

And maybe it’s only imagination at work, but it sure does seem like the water on the fancy side of the lake is more pleasant than its western counterpart; it’s not hard to believe that every morning those eastside municipalities send out divers with pinking shears to trim the milfoil; that’s how nice it is, really.

And if that weren’t enough, consider this lagniappe: turn your head around while crossing the water back and witness the full Strawberry moon emerging from behind the lakefront ridge.  I’m not sure that this counts as one of the “expressionless sirens” Plath was writing about, but it sure was blinding in its valedictory pale hand.  

“Stars open among the lilies,” sounds about right to me, too.