The Pond

The Crown of Autumn:

Geese,
And skies so bright
You get an ice-cream headache
Just by looking up.

The breeze sends a phalanx
Of determined ripples
Marching toward you.

Beneath, years of leaves
Mulch the bottom.
Some leaves float.
Some are suspended
Between the surface
And the bottom,
Like hopes.

With time,
Unless you reach in,
They will become part of
Something else,
Something decaying
And nourishing,
Even while at rest.

Their wobbly equilibrium,
Their last defiance
Of gravity,
Is our life and death:
An instant of conception
Brought to bloom,
Discarded,
Converted from matter
To energy --

But first,
One last proclamation
Of love
For sunlight,
Peat moss,
Rock-skippers --

All who fed and
Delighted,
All who accompanied
And all who remain.

Still here,
Even while journeying
On,
We, too, are
Brief and blessed;

We, too, see
Our matter descend
As our spirit rises

To become another
Seed
Of Bright Being.

--Mr. Gobley