Were I to launch myself into 

the pond as the frogs do at 

my footfalls, I would sink 

into the thick mud. But first —

oh, but first —

clear, cold water would shock me.

Ancient oak leaves and red maple 

buds would caress my lips.

The tufted titmice would 

scatter. I would be remembered.

A disruptor wearing a mantle

of forsythia, framed by constellations 

of skunk cabbage. My shadow 

across the water, the pruned branches 

of memories passed through 

generations of salamanders

who saw my hair, dripping wet,

as weeds upon which to lay their eggs.