Gift Of The Pond
We’d sift into the pond’s crisp sand,
Daddy’s smile upon the water’s tremble,
a myriad of curling fish within a cloud stippled shine.
His back curved when mom died,
his eyes like wilted leaves,
he’d sit beside the pond, its sand gone sullen beneath.
I’d look to the water’s white flicks,
their grins, pouts and green laced curls
a breeze’s smooth lattice upon my hair.
Within one day, his eyes
as though viewing storms,
and voice, a wavering bird’s call,
“does it still look
a winsome, magic land,
place where hopes aspire
where treasures pretend to be imagined
and hidden gleam,or ponderous, endlessly deep
as if no pond shall ever again fly?”
My silence, sullen, dripped down my young boy face..
“Look close into the water,” he whispered ...
a reflection she left behind.
In a list
Comments
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As one who knows that curved back all too well, I must tell you that this is a poignant & visceral portrait of mourning. I am soothed by the serene sanctuary of your Love...There is no more grief darkly haunting my eyes, Sweetheart...Only the sparkle of Knowing...
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"When Mom died his back curved,
and his eyes like wilted leaves..."
i feel like crying. don't worry, it's
a good thing to be so emotionally
moved by poetry. this is means
something to me...
love, lane
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pottable water...
right up against the shiver walls, each character finds their link with extinction - one insurrection at a time - one long extravaganza buried in the sand. your print is most permanent in the legend you leave behind, Moqui.
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