By: Wendy E. Braun
I was walking by the pond on my way to town.
Mind you, it was not some lovely Midwestern pond,
with willow trees, and frogs resting in the muddied grasses.
I know nothing of ponds like that, that is
outside of stories that belong to people
who never mind waiting for the breeze,
or so I’m told.
No, I know of ponds, and rivers and oceans
that can only be cleansed through memories,
memories comprised of lost shoes
and double dog dares, and uneven ground
and salvaged railroad ties meant to buffer a spill.
This pond is stitched with memory,
as I walk by and think what a strange quality
to attribute to water, but still each thread has its
boundary or is one, the eye its channel.
So this pond, which is hardly more than a puddle
is wrapped up with my father fighting a flood
from the neighbor’s yard, and a railroad tie
trying to protect my new swing set from the onset,
while grandpa just laughs and I sail my toy boat.
Wendy E. Braun - This Existence 