If you would know the pond today, come early.
Hasten with deliberate slowness,
hurry, linger, before the now becomes the when.
Clouds shift, light evolves, each moment more, each moment less.
Faint and ancient epoch now is winter,
that held the world in its unyielding grasp.
Breathe and all is new, unfurled, colored, textured, gone.
Nature writes her poem anew each morning,
and erases it at night.
Canoe glides a path and with it pens a verse,
Plucking twang of bullfrog chords,
Grackle’s iridescence hidden in silhouette against the sky,
Old men turtles in a line plop away, and I must go.
Headed home, flowers dust the shore with white.
Each tiny cluster speaks the pace of spring.
Round pink buds of promise
turn to stars of white perfection,
then fade to fuzzy frazzle.
If you would know the pond tomorrow, come early.