He blinks his little silver eyes
To distinguish himself from slippery stones
And bows to waving daffodils
Finally he has escaped into heaven
Or perhaps he thinks so.
But he is alone here…
Lonely like the first star in the dusk.
Some geese are looking at him
In a curious awe… but he simply ogles
At the spider suspended over him
Hanging by a golden glint..
Proud to pull her own strings.
In the air, he feels a frosty touch
So unnatural in a morn like this
Perhaps, it comes from yonder sheet of water
That breathless, convulsing, glassy lake
Where now and then, some bird dives in
And smashes in glitters its luminous peace.
He shifts himself a little on soft chilled grass
And shakes off the dew posing as sweat on his brow
Somewhere around a skylark whistles
The first notes of his musical dream
That turns the grass into an ample cushion
And puts the turtle back to sleep.