I enjoy ponds, no matter where I wander, a pond always brings a smile to my face. The seasons change, summer turns to autumn, the trees drop their leaves.
The outdoor cold of winter might not be quite at a freezing level (not cold enough for a pond to freeze over), and yet, a pond leaves me with a sense of warmth in the crisp chill of the morning, as I walk.
Spring returns, and with it the lush greenness illuminates the landscape. Lily pads delicately float within a Zen setting, and a bridge hovers over them, as the glide in slow motion. I enjoy visiting this place of sanctuary, enjoy the moments of quietude.
As I browsed poetry sites, I found Poetry Chaikhana, and came upon this lovely poem entitled The Ponds, by Mary Oliver. You can read more about her, here.
are so perfect
I can hardly believe
their lapped light crowding
Nobody could count all of them —
the muskrats swimming
among the pads and the grasses
can reach out
their muscular arms and touch
only so many, they are that
rife and wild.
But what in this world
I bend closer and see
how this one is clearly lopsided —
and that one wears an orange blight —
and this one is a glossy cheek
half nibbled away —
and that one is a slumped purse
full of its own
Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled —
to cast aside the weight of facts
and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking
into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing —
that the light is everything — that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.