The summer wind suggests the path
to the pond where otters splash.
First, we wade through meadow grass
left unmown for bobolinks.
Daisies lilt in critique of cloud,
their ultraviolet thirst rooted
as deeply as instinct can plumb.
Although a purple overcast
has blown from Canada we spot
the shadows of tiny figures
at the tree line. They bob and duck,
sparring with rival creatures
we’ve imagined only in dreams.
They won’t interfere with us.
They’re pure products of wind song
and lack an important dimension.
We enter the woods and regard
a decayed wooden sign reading
Nature and Wildlife Preserve,
which surely applies to us.
The path forks but we forge along
a trail dished by years of hiking
and sense the tremors of mice
and the brown distance of deer.
We’re only a few hundred yards
from the road, but our breath quickens
as the pond hangs framed in trees.
A bench invites us to share our bulk.
But we stand in full view of the view
and let the distance across the pond
represent long lives we’ve traced
down this innocent slope to water
composed of everything we’ve thought.
No comments:
Post a Comment