Spirit Pond

I’m sitting on the bench swing

behind Spirit Pond

I can’t see my reflection-

Narcissus that I would be-

but I can see the bubbles that rise

to the surface sometimes. 

No birds bathe in it

no animals drink from it

but I’ve heard stories

of Navajo spears that reappeared

from the not-forgotten years. 

I sit here often

taking in my surroundings

the chicken coops and the blueberries

the barn that I sleep in

Mike or Oscar working on some machine

the horses grazing

the sprouting grass in the hayfield 

that paints a calm sea of green

leading to the ridge with the blooming plum trees

whose snow dusts the trail

past the dancing oaks

to the top where you can see the taller ridge

on the other side. 

No one knows where to find me, 

except Lorri, who shared this spot with me.

I can just exist in this place

beneath the bright blue sky. 

I wonder where you’ll read this

and how your day has been

I wonder how we arrived where we are

and how we’ll get to wherever we’re going,

and when our paths come together again.

How old will we be?

What will we have accomplished?

Who will have changed us?

My journey moves forward without 

me willing it to

I ride the waves of time

through each moment, each day, each year.