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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 © 2026 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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