The Art of In and Out Again
The turtle swims in the murky brown water.
Slow. Easy. Looking for a log or a stone
to clamber on and sun itself.
Each stroke is lazy, barely a ripple.
The sun carves out each marking
and if you look closely, each scar on the shell.
The turtle’s life is not the safe one we imagine,
of you place your trust in scars and wounds.
but you would never know it here, now.
in the moment. You wonder
at what age the turtle discovered the art
of savoring what is, and ignoring
the aches and pains of wounds
and savor the sun on a day like this,
ready always to close into its fetal shell
when the situation arises, but just as willing
to expose himself when safety sings,
and become part of the beauty around him.
About this poem
I seem to be in a stage where I never write the poem I start out to write. This was to be about ruins. Ah well. When in doubt, always follow the muse.
About turtles. About life and all of us who are walking wounded, and far more beautiful than we believe.
PS: The picture was taken at a local state park.