The Pond

A summer sun stretches the pond’s shore
as clover repairs its ring-around path
and thousands of fireflies celebrate the Fourth.

Many want access
but poison ivy and vines crowd the banks.
I must prune.

A fall breeze wanders lengthening nights 
as pond-side trees go blaze to brown to bare
and sandhill cranes honk in a graying sky.

The water’s unclear
while tiny green duckweeds block the surface.
I must skim.

Winter wreathes a towering pine in white
as frantic woodpeckers gobble suet
and snow depths make walking a trial.

All would ice over
without the pond’s electric heart below.
It must pump.

Spring showers and snow-melt rush in
as buds emerge from lilac and honeysuckle
and returning birds cheer all sides of the pond.

Everything rouses.
Daffodils, lilies, and black-eyed Susans
must revive.

—————-
Chris Clark, 12/22/16


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