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Pleasantries from the Ponds
by Kristina Woodhillthe paved paths
      that meander around
  the ponds
allow for all
to observe nature
up close
      so those confined to
   wheels, in chairs, might also
      glimpse
         at least
      lives lived free
this morning a breeze
    from the northwest
                 pushed things along
   gently directing traffic
the rippled waters
  a mass of small, shallow cups
rocking one next to the other
       cracked through occasionally
  by coots, ducks, or geese,
leaving their smeared “v” behind
      on this glassy cool surface
I enter by way of a pedestrian opening
   gateway through wood corral fencing
confident that they are already there
      going about their chosen tasks
indeed, he sits in a different fishing spot
  than last time, but he is there
        usually I see him from behind
as he is a fisherman on pond's edge
  and I am a walker on the paths
he is noticeable by his hair
     a yellowed blond
  bottled on aged, I assume
styled carefully each morning
in a mirror reflecting the 50's era
     a bit longer in the back than
the rigid D.A. and a bit flatter on top
  but I'd say the grease keeps things
well in place
 I chuckle inwardly as I observe
 just beyond him in the pond
   a duck, bobbing
      bottoms up
he is a fisherman
and he is serious, two poles
  often set out side by side
and he, sitting or standing
    with the patience of clarity
that this is a mighty fine way
to spend a morning
  his letterman jacket completes
the persona,– light blue sleeves,
  tan leather body - I see no insignia
   no numbers, but I'd say the hair
and the jacket became inseparable
  as the memories they embody
    they are him
I have never spoken to him
  but I do say good morning
to the woman who is as constant a
participant there
   as the changing season's
of these ponds
she always walks counter clockwise
  around the path
I prefer following the normal tick
of things
   and so, we always meet
 this morning I had to smile as
we approached each other and spoke
   both wearing red jackets
her hat sits tidily upon her short, cropped hair
  it is a blue hiker's hat, the soft brim all around
   just barely shading her neck
and eyes that are kind, mature,
     and alert
  for she is the counter of birds
   and as my fingers twiddle idly
     in pockets as I stroll along
her right hand holds a writing utensil with purpose
  and her left hand holds a pad
they are not held down at her side
   they are up and out and at the ready
as I watch her appear from the distance
   she is, as if on cue
    performing her bird counting ballet
 first position finds her hands
   grip binoculars from her ample chest
a quick peering at a tree
  head up, slight turn, and down
second position finds pencil and
   pad hands out
a modified plie, slight bounce, and
  hands together perform marking task
and down
    slight head turn to left
     slight head turn to right
toes always slightly pointed outward
  a gentle but firm bounce to each step
gracefully addressing trees, bushes
   water side stages
I can't help but giggle a bit when I see her
she is a charming mix of middle-aged purpose
  outdoor Idaho conservation
and hope for adding order to the world
   I do wonder if the birds knowingly
 shift about a bit from time to time
as she makes her way from pond to pond
    and make a muddle of her
numbered markings
   just for fun
There is a sense here
   that idleness is welcome
  that poles with lines in the water
do not need to catch anything
   that the daily counting of water fowl
 does not have to balance any ledger
    and that a quiet stroll meandering
  beside ponds of gently lapping waters
does not require a map
   to point out a treasured direction
10/10/2007
Posted on 10/11/2007
Copyright © 2025 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 10/11/07 at 03:34 AM Some of the richest imagery I think I've ever seen out of you. You've really created something impressive here. |
| Posted by A. Paige White on 10/11/07 at 07:37 PM I have to agree with Gabriel and the final stanza is to this poem as a cool breeze to a warming hiker. Wonderful! |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 10/12/07 at 02:59 PM I read this yesterday (from a place I couldn't log in) and fell in love. Then things got deeper: last night, the Pond People swirled in my mind while on the front porch. (How could they not? —every one of them come alive and jump out of your poem, so intriguingly you wrote of them!) Now, this morning, I found myself wondering how the Pond People see you! [I know! But wait! There's more!] What would a poem from each of them reveal about you? about each of the other? Oh, I've been carried along quite in a bliss of thoughts!
And this is what happens.
Read Woodhill —> enter journey —> emerge in another world —> desire more Woodhill!
;) I am so glad you're a writer! You're incredible! |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 10/14/07 at 01:17 AM A very pleasant walk you've taken us on. A couple of disparate but interesting characters on the way. You've "photographed" them on your walks and yourself revealed by what you've taken. |
| Posted by Kathleen Wilson on 10/15/07 at 02:46 PM Into this poetic watery wonder I float and see at first one word that sings the rest "meader". This word, used to describe the ancient Chinese gardens where poets would float their cups of wine and cups with poems on just such a meandering stream as this! And would have such a "gentle breeze" as this "directing traffic"! So are these your "mass of small, shallow cups
rocking one next to the other"?? How wonderful if so... and if not, then so! Your stanzas, especially the next to last like cups in line. And all here floats like poem cups, and in your cup-- you, he, her, them-- all alive with such life and expression!
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