Early Dutch

Manahatta . . .
A lovely name, he thought, and a lovely island,
lemon-lime in the filament of spring.
Only an arc of birdsong on the stillness
and curve of wing.

Clucking among the stones, a brook, translucent
through leaves like moons, through fluttering scarves
of trout.
Beyond the dogwood's crucifix, a rabbit
skittering in and out.

Manahatta . . .
A velvet word, he thought, and a velvet island,
like yielding moss, like lace on a fluted beach . . .
A singing word in the mouth of a salty river
far from an old world's reach.

Here I would live forever, said Van Twiller.
Time does not move here, only the sun and sky.
Here I will drift through time like a lazy swimmer
and cities may pass me by.