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Poetry
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Grout Pond
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In a bowl between mountains
the pond mirrored the sky:
reflections of clouds
and the blue dome of space
on the wrinkled fabric
of the water’s surface,
where the wind raised whitecaps,
and the sun sparkled like sequins.
Down a road nearly 200 years old
meandering through a forest,
I saw a moose munching apples
in an abandoned orchard.
Witness to secret silences,
a pilgrim to forgotten places,
I listened carefully to what
was not heard elsewhere.
the pond mirrored the sky:
reflections of clouds
and the blue dome of space
on the wrinkled fabric
of the water’s surface,
where the wind raised whitecaps,
and the sun sparkled like sequins.
Down a road nearly 200 years old
meandering through a forest,
I saw a moose munching apples
in an abandoned orchard.
Witness to secret silences,
a pilgrim to forgotten places,
I listened carefully to what
was not heard elsewhere.
