The Lilies of the Black Ponds
for Susan Deborah King
In a moment between getting dressed
and my morning commute
I sat at the edge of my bed
And for some reason my hand
reached to the bedside table and drew out
Mary Oliver's book from the stack.
The page opened to this verse:
"Who doesn't love
roses, and who
doesn't love the lilies
of the black ponds"
In an instant my mind flew
open to a place I know
where lilies grow in wild, still water
And several days later, not long after dawn
I sat unhurried, drifting through wild lilies.
Their pads were tethered by slack tapers
to the rich, soft, soil
and all that lies below it.
In a moment between getting dressed
and my morning commute
I sat at the edge of my bed
And for some reason my hand
reached to the bedside table and drew out
Mary Oliver's book from the stack.
The page opened to this verse:
"Who doesn't love
roses, and who
doesn't love the lilies
of the black ponds"
In an instant my mind flew
open to a place I know
where lilies grow in wild, still water
And several days later, not long after dawn
I sat unhurried, drifting through wild lilies.
Their pads were tethered by slack tapers
to the rich, soft, soil
and all that lies below it.
