Sellfoss, Take 2

SELLFOSS II

From Iceland

Her back is turned to the lens
While her hair–
damp from the dew–
is lifted from her shoulders
by Iceland’s March bluster.
Meanwhile the mist of the falls coats
her eyelash
and the bit of her nose
that remains unobstructed,
even as she faces away from me.

And fleeting the edge
of the frame, a phantom—
she is my Vermeer,
pearl earrings and all,
coming and going at the same time,
and even now
I’m unsure of which it was.

Behind her, a watery curtain,
pounding unwaveringly on the pond
below it, which is nothing if not
innocent, is cradled by
a rock face, a mossy carpet,
and a stairway that leads
to either the summit
or to the edge.
When we reach it
she finally turns
so that I can see her eyes,
and she murmurs: “Everything beyond here
belongs to the gulls”.

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