The Pond

In the forest there's a forgotten, forlorn pond,
Where few ducks go,

Ringed with moss covered stones

And collections of twigs.

All the boughs above are bent and bending,

Curved canopies of tiny green and yellow flags 

Signal the surrounding dirt path, 

That I walk on.

The water reflects the branches so that everything is framed,

Leaves adorn at all levels and shades,

Shading me.

Wherever trees meet and bow in the presence of water, there must be magic,

I think.

Copyright LJ 2020.