I
knew my heart galled in a bitter state,
hardened by years of whiskey and gin,
softened
only by remorse for my fate,
I no longer felt for kith and kin.
Outside myself the world seemed within,
I’d
walk in my yard around a frog pond
watching lily pads afloat so thin,
ringed
by green and gold mountains beyond.
What
next? I asked, for time was getting late.
My life would end before I’d begin.
Leaves would turn fire to coldness of slate
buried under a plate of chagrin.
Is the bud a threat to discipline?
Or harbinger to a magic wand?
Meanwhile,
this boy’s gone through thick-and-thin
ringed by green and gold mountains beyond.
My
pond’s aura where croaking bullfrogs grate
to silence peepers’ relentless din,
bursting
night air in cacophonous fĂȘte
only reminds me of where I’ve been.
As young and old are forever twin,
the
night is the song of an ancient bond
healing man and nature in a timeless spin,
ringed
by silhouettes of hills beyond.
With
joy, I have decided to pin
my hopes to a pond, of which I’m so fond,
to
bring me back to the world therein,
ringed by green and gold mountains beyond.
George
S. Chappell
Rockland, Maine