M.C. Escher (1956)
Let us skim the surface of reality
like a pair of swans
and call it poetry
Or instead of giving it away,
two waterbirds, with necks bent
like the delicate handles of white china jugs.
No plumbing of the doubtful depths beneath
for our several personal atrocities
Just this almost silent glide
and a swishing turn by the reeds, poise,
because the secret lies in contemplation rather than deed.
And don’t forget to admire the mirrored underside of clouds
like pulsing throats waiting to be slit open,
and for rain to fingertip the silvery skin
And call it poetry.
Today's challenge in the Imaginary Garden: Literary Excursions ~ Metafiction