By a Pond
BY A POND
1
A swan took flight on rustling wings.
The setting sun reflects upon a pond.
Hear the evening silence widening.
I sense the slow beat of my
heart, and there’s a sudden quiet
present, spreading everywhere.
2
The swan is gone. I ponder on my
lingering, earthly existence
slowly drawing to a close, yet here I am.
What’s keeping me here? This lonely
heart? Its persistence? My passion?
Swan, where then did you go?
3
A man stood up, turned around, left.
Far from here, in the bustle of cities, he
recalls how hope rose high one noon;
how a far silence overwhelmed him;
how a shadow slanted past his face,
and his future swiftly winged away.
Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash
In the course of my poetic “career”, I’ve written several poems about ponds. They fascinate me to no end. I remember one summer in the 90s, I’d frequently visit a small, lovely park, Witham Woods, in Fairfield, Iowa to hang out for hours and drink in the scene. I always carried a little note book to jot down new impressions. Actually I would have been able to do without any notebook. Over the years I’ve found out that no matter when or where a new inspiration comes to me, even in the midst of conversations with others, it would always come back to me. As soon as I was back home, it would pour out in my writing a new poem or more.
BY A POND
1
A swan took flight on rustling wings.
The setting sun reflects upon a pond.
Hear the evening silence widening.
I sense the slow beat of my
heart, and there’s a sudden quiet
present, spreading everywhere.
2
The swan is gone. I ponder on my
lingering, earthly existence
slowly drawing to a close, yet here I am.
What’s keeping me here? This lonely
heart? Its persistence? My passion?
Swan, where then did you go?
3
A man stood up, turned around, left.
Far from here, in the bustle of cities, he
recalls how hope rose high one noon;
how a far silence overwhelmed him;
how a shadow slanted past his face,
and his future swiftly winged away.