Of Ponds and Poets

There were two ponds on the farm where I grew up. First was the one in the pasture over west - the one where Mom would take us to try to teach us to fish. I could dig up the earthworms we used for bait, but I could not sacrifice them to the fishhooks. Mom had to do that for me. My sister was not so squeamish.

This was also the pond Betty and I once went skinny-dipping in when we were old enough to "pike-off" - Mom's term for when we roamed around the farm without telling her where we were going.

The second, new, pond was the one a short distance up the road at the other place. That was the one Dad threw my sister and me into thinking we would have to learn to swim. It was also where brother Ron and his friend Norman built and launched their leaky raft. 

The pond pictured above was the hidden pond I didn't discover for months after we had moved to the 'Little House' in Taylor County. It was a quiet, serene spot, perfect for our geese, Mac and Molly. I liked that pond a lot. 

The kids and I swam there a few times, but the instance I, and he, remember the most was when I thought I could teach Bud how to swim. It was a short lesson - he swore I was trying to drown him. (This was when we had just started dating so there may have been some trust issues involved.) 

But it is the pond I have seen every day for almost fourteen years that means the most to me now. Bud has fished there many times and taught a few of the grands and great-grands, even three grand-nephews about fishing. (But no swimming.)

It is the pond I see every day out my magic window. I have seen so much wild life and so many sun and moon sets over it. I have taken beaucoup photos of it in all kinds of weather and every season. Twice I have stood on the deck and taken pictures of  funnel clouds over it as well as many times watched hot air balloons drifting across above it. 

So it isn't surprising that it is the pond I think of when I read a new, to me, poem by one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver.

Walking To Oak-Head Pond 

And Thinking Of 

The Ponds I Will Visit 

In The Next Days And Weeks

What is so utterly invisible

as tomorrow?

Not love,

not the wind, 

not the inside of a stone.

Not anything.

And yet, how often I'm fooled --

I'm wading along

in the sunlight --

and I'm sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining

days ahead --

I can see the light spilling

like a shower of meteors

into next week's trees,

and I plan to be there soon --

and, so far, I am

just that lucky,

my legs splashing

over the edge of darkness,

my heart on fire.

I don't know where

such certainty comes from --

the brave flesh

or the theater of the mind --

but if I had to guess

I would say that only

what the soul is supposed to be 

could send us forth

with such cheer

as even the leaf must wear 

as it unfurls

its fragrant body, and shines

against the hard possibility of stoppage --

which, day after day,

before such brisk, corpuscular belief, 

shudders, and gives way.