Beside the frozen pond
there is not much to say.
The black willows coruscating
seem more satisfactory
than syllables. They do not try
to say, do not try to mean,
they simply catch the fleeting sun
and then lose it all—the ice,
the shine, the crystal gloss.
Though they do not think
of it as loss. You are the one
who decides what is lovelier.
You are the one who is moved
by light. Night, it comes so soon,
but it is nothing personal. Not
a symbol. It is night.
You are the one who longs
for sun. You are the one who
would rather be something gold
than the one shivering
beside the pond, the frozen pond,
where even now the wind
is shaking the willows,
it moves across the ice,
moves through the field
while you stand there, silent,
and it will keep moving
long after you have gone.