Echolocations

Echolocations

wearisome? a turtle asked
I sat cold – still, blinking;
silently.

summer comes in all scents, he said
I tried to catch a baby frog,
ignoring Mr. Turtle,
we all know that turtles can be too sassy –
sometimes, with their slow ways.

Mr. Turtle, scuttled over; right next to me,
he sat silently for a moment then,
peered over, I pretended not to care
that he carried the weight of Heaven; on his back.

oh, I knew, I knew quite well,
he had something ancient to tell me –
why? I thought, why, would Mr. Turtle want to share with me?
continuing to slight him, with the daggers of my silence;
he sat intertwining Heaven and Earth,
poking holes in my frustrations –
Wisdom and Perseverance ringing off his belly.

finally, I looked over at Mr. Turtle;
and said, “What?” in an annoyed tone,
I felt he needed to know that I was not impressed;
with his shenanigans;
there are times we humans like to wallow,
soaking up the pond scum, straight into our lungs!
he was silent.

my furrowed face looked onward,
his quietude was bothersome –
again, I asked, “What, Mr. Turtle?”
with an exasperated sigh,
my words dangled off my bottom lip,
molasses-like, he rolled his eyes up to mine;
it felt as if the sound barrier had broken,
right there! by the murky old pond,
filled with tadpoles, baby frogs, and cattails whistling.

he looked back at the water rippling,
bouncing the noon-day sun;
we both, queas’ing echolocations –
I captured some sacred laconic verse,
subconsciously, but all I heard?
was Mr. Turtle, ask me once more,
wearisome? 
leisurely-like, I twisted my head;
admiring the art of his shell.

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