Wordsworth's Secret

Grasmere, April 11th 2:30pm

The poem is waiting,
buried in the middle of the lake.
It mutters to itself and syllables
rise in bubbles.

I stand at the water’s edge,
my bare feet sinking into the sand
that holds them in stanzas.

Rhythm spreads from the poem in rings,
vibrating the water, kissing
my toes in iambic pentameter.
It congregates around the couplet of my ankles.

The sun throws a handful
of gold coins that sing like vowels
as they sink and fish
rise to the surface as words.

Their meaning is clear.