Riding by a pond, I was struck by
how calm it was, its surface a mirror,
and decided on the spot
that we needed new metaphors,
the looking-glass waters now a cliché.
Okay, I’m riding by a still pond,
its surface smooth, wet, and reflective,
the moist lens of a cat’s eye.
Now, that’s a stretch, and not much
of a contribution to the canon.
I’m still riding by a sun-drenched pond
settled by invisible shafts of light
scattering clouds away with the wind.
Okay, if it’s windy, how can the pond be still?
Maybe this just isn’t worth it.
Still struggling to gloss a simple scene,
I’m beginning to fade riding so often
by a black obsidian pond,
skylines and rippling landscapes,
frozen in space for forever and a day.
I’ll start over: while pumping my legs
on my noble two-wheeled steed
I’m struck by an adorable essence
of H2O shimmering in the sun,
mimicking the world above.
In light of all this, let me query
have you seen lately a tree
that is as a lovely poem?
I like trees a lot,