Those little puddle-ponds
on the sloping hill
above the village
past the abandoned orchard
fill with solitude
like silence of music
catnapping in a fiddle
on the workshop wall
for so long now
that it would have disappeared
into its stone and the lime—
into a nearly unheard-of
world, unseen—unless one
would still be lucky to form
the air into sound and keys
of its knowing in a verse that flows.
Yet the water of the pond unrippled
among the rushes that lisp slowly
in the wind wetted by a recent rain
has been all these ages a wicket,
wicket door, branka,
and a Heaven’s
turning point, and the vor
or little raft
left there by some wingless boys
is from a flower which had fallen
down into the long ago forgotten
and unknown a husk, an empty shell
even though its radiance and pollen
and its placid scent may still hang around.
Like the pond and the heart—
when the two would meet
and become once more tied
in solitude or worldless reflection…
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