TORTOISES

     You know what it is to be born alone,
     Baby tortoise!
     The first day to heave your feet little by little
          from the shell,
     Not yet awake,
     And remain lapsed on earth,
     Not quite alive.

     A tiny, fragile, half-animate bean.

     To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if
          it would never open,
     Like some iron door;
     To lift the upper hawk-beak from the lower base
     And reach your skinny little neck
     And take your first bite at some dim bit of
          herbage,
     Alone, small insect,
     Tiny bright-eye,
     Slow one.

     To take your first solitary bite
     And move on your slow, solitary hunt.
     Your bright, dark little eye,
     Your eye of a dark disturbed night,
     Under its slow lid, tiny baby tortoise,
     So indomitable.

     No one ever heard you complain.

     You draw your head forward, slowly, from your
          little wimple
     And set forward, slow-dragging, on your four-
          pinned toes,
     Rowing slowly forward.
     Whither away, small bird?

     Rather like a baby working its limbs,
     Except that you make slow, ageless progress
     And a baby makes none.

     The touch of sun excites you,
     And the long ages, and the lingering chill
     Make you pause to yawn,
     Opening your impervious mouth,
     Suddenly beak-shaped, and very wide, like some
          suddenly gaping pincers;
     Soft red tongue, and hard thin gums,
     Then close the wedge of your little mountain
          front,
     Your face, baby tortoise.

     Do you wonder at the world, as slowly you turn
          your head in its wimple
     And look with laconic, black