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Passions in Poetry

Lovestruck's Challenge to Sunshine - But in Lieu of a Lake, You get a Pond

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Member Caelestus
since 06-25-99
Posts 67715
Listening to every heart

0 posted 07-10-99 08:07 AM       View Profile for Sunshine   Email Sunshine   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to Submit your Poem to Passions   Click to visit Sunshine's Home Page   View IP for Sunshine

To Lovestruck, in lieu of a lake:

The Pasture Pond

There is the 160, and to the
northwest corner in a sheltered area
lies a small
pond, primarily north and southern laid,
a drainage area succumbing at
the northern end from too much rain,
the furthermost corner of the
dammed area eroding away.

To reach the pond you must go over two
swells of elevated native country,
not hills, just swells,
enough to lift you high at the top to see
360 degrees,
and view the Smoky Hills.
Indian country. Virgin land.
Just you and me.
Once at the pond, we can slide rocks over the
frozen waters, and test the ice with our boots,
give it more weight,
hear a cracking and step back.
Not cold enough to slide across
fear holds us back, weíve
never known how really deep the pond
and donít want to find out now.

Wait a moment.

Springís rains dissolve the iciness of winter
and warmer weather starts the pond to
brewing scum
green, bubbling, warm sun growing
algae, with bobbing eyes of half-morphed
tadpoles blinking, sinking, popping up over
see? Step into the worn ruts
left from last summerís cowís tracings
to the edge of the pond,
kick the sand a
bit with your booted toe, and watch the
red ants swarm. Cattails are beginning,
reeds only.

Wait a moment.

Summer erupts the pond into cattails brown tops
and frogs
and squirrels chittering along the bank,
and turtles
and bugs, water bugs dancing,
skimming the pondís surface
and down the frogís throat.
Now skim small rocks, flat rocks,
make them dance
and plop. Plop. Plop.
A bit of moss clings to the edge of the water
and you walk softly there, to not scare
....croack.... splash, splish, frogs
hear you anyway, and dive, dive safely.

The weeping willow lends a long trunk outward
over the pond, enough to sit on and gaze out
on the shimmering pondís
surface, discerning
eyes of toads, frogs and perhaps a turtle
floating in the middle.
Wishing for a small boat.
Just for the heck of it. Heads disappear. Pop
back up. Croaking.
Chirping. Buzzing.
Look toward the pondís south end,
a blue heron standing.
Still. Silent. Solitary.
Ducks overhead, waiting for us to

Wait a moment.

Rest begins. Water lower, scum gone,
cooler mornings, lazy afternoons of fall
Cattails effervesced into
fuzzy white puffs of seed
waiting for scattering winds.
Shining gold/yellow/red/orange
reflections on blue water
from the cottonwoods, elms,
birch, and hedgetrees. Quiet. A frog, huge now,
croaking deeper, lonely, only the one? No answer.
Cows on the rise,
watching you, waiting for you to leave.

Come with me. Youíve seen the seasons of the pond.


Words will always express our feelings true.

© Copyright 1999 Karilea Rilling - All Rights Reserved
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