Emerson’s Pond

Today, you are a shimmering silver-gray reflecting mid-April’s overcast sky, leafless trees but, otherwise, you haven’t changed much in the past seventy years, except for the fence that now surrounds you as if to tell me I can’t come back. Had the fence not been here, I would walk right up to you, dip a little water out to take home with me, the way pilgrims take water from the Jordan or the Ganges. You along with Milnar’s Lane, Becker’s Barn, Brock’s Woods, The Gravel Pit you were my favorite. You were adventure no matter what season, I feel excitement swelling up inside me even now as I peer at you, face to face, through this fence, each square, a mosaic in my memory—the spring our 2nd grade class came down to gather tadpoles, the summers we fished from your banks or jumped into you with our clothes on just to cool off, winter afternoons when we chipped buckets of ice from your frozen surface, hauled them home on our sleds so we could make ice cream, then as a teenager, those autumn evenings adrift in a rowboat, just me and a girlfriend on your rippled surface as you cuddled and kissed the harvest moon. So to some, you are just a spring-fed watering hole for old man Emerson’s horses, to others part of a pastoral scene, to me, you are essence

Mirroring sky
cradling moon     trees
loving pond
                                                                           R. T. Sedgwick

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