THE MANY FACES OF WALKERS POND
By Margaret Geckos


Beyond the windows of our home,
A generous, serene expanse of green
lies where bradford pear trees expose
their billowing symmetry in spring.

Beyond, a pond emerges like an eye
Sculpted out of where grainy sand once was,
To form a blue rectangle of symmetric girth,
That looks up to the heavens high
Only to spill them down to dye it depths.--
To rival the azure color it just left,
Reflecting, too, all else that may drift by--
A cloud, a kite, a plane trailing a sign.

The pond is respite to tired migrating birds,
A quiet icon for the tired eye;
It imitates the world above and all around,
As though it had no purpose of its own;
And yet, it does…. I sense its soul,
As seagulls, ducks and geese
See it as sanctuary and renewing source.

Should skies decide to turn the color grey
The pond, too, mimics this overcast,
And yet, it never shed a tear of its own,
It grows deeper when the clouds decide they must.

During the torrid, humid summer months
It spouts arching fountains from its aquatic heart,
Delighting all those fortunate enough to pass,
While I regard them as my very own.

At night this pond is something else again—
A smooth black mirror, quiet and resigned,
Content to reflect the starry skies above,
And the well-ordered array of old-fashioned lamps
That bring back nostalgic memories of days long past,
When lamplighters attended to their appointed task,
While now lamps come alive in sequence by an unseen hand.
Those very street lamps keep vigil with their light,
Releasing their benevolent glow at night.
Then withdrawing it when the morning sun warms the land,
Setting the pond’s surface to sparkle like diamonds grand,
Carried by Apollo’s chariot heading West
Casting a brilliant, golden pink as fire
That travels across the face of this most tranquil place,
Like a reflecting pool with ripples bathed in red,
Until it burns itself out, giving way to a dusky mauve,
To share its beauty with both man and God.

This pond, as seen from the it’s shorter end,
Presents to man its longer, fuller view
That reflects the lights of those that hug its edge,
cradling a sheltered well-paved jogging path,
Serving those who savor a casual stroll,
Pretending its the beloved Walden Pond of Thoreau.

In autumn, the expanse of green grows tired as hay,
But the pond still welcomes active avian life;
The wind thins out the brown leaves of the Bradford trees
And so it improves my less hampered view.
I feel the pond grow colder now’
Although it still reflects the sky as blue.

Winter’s winds make the air feel cold and crisp
As they spread their frigid arms to glaze the pond
With white and frosty layer of snowing mist,
Rendering dormant aquatic life.

And so it goes…the fountains sleep.
Joggers stay home, while geese depart—
Some mallards linger as stubborn flocks
And use the pond as the winds permit.

The pond is never wanting for a change of scene;
In spring it invites again a younger shade of green,
The Bradford pears become brides in white again,
And Canada geese return as “V”s written with a feathery pen.
Tis time now for weary cabin-fevered ears to hear
The honk-honk of geese announcing, “Spring is here!”