Like our web-footed friends on water, we humans are only partially visible, and who would have it otherwise? The ultimate sanctuary is our inner life, the interior garden we inhabit and, in some cases, cultivate. Plus, I like the echo of pedaling and paddling, bicycling forward and loving each other at the same time, like the strange emotional ducks that we are.
The Cove
No duck knows it’s Saturday,
and not one could name the president,
which is why we love them so much
in their secret paddling, their underwater web-work,
and in their flight,
the wings a little frantic when the day is windy.
You and I know what day it is, of course,
even the name of our congressman,
and when we cycle back from the farmers’ market,
anyone paused at a corner
might notice our baskets full of beets
and heads of lettuce as we pedal by,
but no one can see how we are paddling
around in each other’s hearts,
how this the silent, underwater work
is what we have to keep doing
if we want to reach the calm
of that reedy cove before morning turns to night.
Billy Collins served as a two-term U.S. Poet Laureate (2001–03) and is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. His most recent book is Water, Water (Penguin Random House).