The Beaver Pond
Open are the pond’s bright spaces,
brown and withering are the reeds.
Clouds float in the pond’s dark mirror.
Small islands of grass seed
where underwater logs have clogged
and rotted themselves back into life.
Around us, emptiness, empty nests,
earth and its waters waiting for what
strange second coming?
like footprints, delicate on the water,
their pale green tongues lapping
towards the land and everywhere
the low light bright against stripped
That lone mast standing still,
gift-wrapped this bouquet of grass
magic, these sun
this October light,