Edited by Dava Sobel
It, too, will be swept away,
but for now on the seabed
the humble Japanese pufferfish
is creating something
grander than he is alone.
Much as a Tibetan
artist taps his wand to release
a fine stream of sand,
he brushes his fins along the ocean floor
to shift the ancient grains,
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stirring up enough dust
for him to vanish
into its clouds, this creature
that’s not much to look at anyway.
Seemingly unremarkable
apart from his labor,
he toils for a week of days and nights
to perfect a shape as symmetrical
as the rose window it resembles.
If that weren’t enough,
before finishing,
with the skill of someone
threading sequins on lace,
he’ll adorn his tracery with seashells,
and swish, swish,
is that a faint signature of fin prints
he’s left on his masterpiece?
Few of us could fail to understand
his loneliness, his longing to be seen,
if only by a she-fish
that comes and goes.
Oh love, that imperfect art
that accompanies us in the depths.
How dark it would be otherwise,
how cold this far under.