Today the pond is like a river rushing to the sea, but there is no sea and the pond is not a river. Still, the winds that move across its surface are a force that whips it into wildness, and makes it want to rise above its shores and go where ponds can’t go. And I know that wild desire to be more-- that mighty urge to go beyond the shore that holds me where I am. It rises in me every day and takes me with its power to som...

 Today, the pond is stiff with ice and when I tossed a stone and saw it slide, not sink, I watched it sitting on the frozen surface and took a breath of the chilly air, surprised at how what rippled yesterday was now so still and new, changed by the weather’s way. And standing on the frozen water’s edge, remembering the huge typhoon that ripped so many lives apart a world away, I look out at the ice that came into my life...

Two ducks swim by my window, and I wonder do they love each other, or even know that love exists, and I wonder what it is that keeps their feathered lives so bound that every day they go from shore to shore together, so quiet and serene. And I see their tiny eyes looking straight ahead as they swim by and I wonder do they dream of better days living on this pond we share, unaware of me sitting in this chair with dreams of...

It’s dark here on the pond. For some, it’s the middle of the night, but here in these quiet hours before the light of another day, I take my pen and find these words that come to me from who knows where and scratch out what matters to me now, though I don’t know why and wonder if I care. I could stay asleep or sit here and be quiet like the night, but now I hear the wind outside and know a storm is in the air and as I lis...

Nothing that I think or feel is new, but now it’s mine to taste and savor, and as I breathe the warm, sweet air in this sunny room I think of ancient times-- times before history— when men, some young, some old looked up at the stars and moon with wonder and with questions, or watched that ball of fire, we call the sun, move from dawn to dusk, and in its light and heat, together, they sang songs of praise and gratitude. A...

We play with time when we take away an hour and then in spring give it back as if we have some power over time, but nothing stops the days from coming, or the months, and years, and sitting here living by this pond, glancing at the hour hand I moved, I don’t feel any younger or less ignorant and chuckle at the game we play when we change the time as if the sun and stars and phases of the moon will change their pace. Today...

If I could paint, each day I’d be at my easel painting what I think I see across the pond, or if I could carve, each day I’d peel away the wood and find the loon, or heron or duckling and try to get the wing just right, or if I played the violin, or flute, or mandolin I’d make up music to say what words can’t say, and play for anyone out there who will listen. So, every day I search for words that paint and carve and sing...

Good morning, pond. I know that you can’t hear me, or feel how happy I am to see you gleaming in the rising sunlight. It’s just that words swell in me when I see your stillness, the blue sky shining on your surface, the trees like silhouettes floating across from me, and so I speak, not caring if it’s silly. Nothing is foolish when it comes from a simple, spontaneous spark that lets me to say these words as if speaking to...

Today, looking at this lovely pond, I wonder how we came to live here, together sharing the light of the ancient sun and at night, the moon and distant stars. And sitting here in these silent moments, before gathering wood for the chilly night, I look out at the trees, aging like me, and see their leaves falling once again in the autumn air, and I marvel at the orbits we have traveled to spend these days together, and the...

 Dawn and the pond is still and quiet. Last night I saw the sliver of the moon shining on the water. It was dark and I was looking down, not up as if the water was the sky. But now, as morning comes and the clouds float across the pond and the trees, turning red and yellow in October’s air paint themselves on the water, I smile at their art, glad to have this dawn.

FROM THE PORCH Today, the pond is filled with ripples sparkling in the sunlight, not like yesterday, when a storm poured rain on the pond, and a chilling wind tore leaves from the trees. Nearby, a pile of logs is waiting to be split, the axe resting like me, loving these idle moments when everything that could be done is waiting for these moments to go where they go, just like the ripples on the pond moving mysteriously a...

From My Window While the pond reflects the red and gold of the trees along the shore, and the slow clouds high above move across the still water, I ask who am I to ask for more? And so I sit here at my desk with no order and say to the silent air, how blessed I am to be here by this window, in this chair.

  It’s food I want. My mouth devouring grapes and berries plucked and juicy on my lips. I want to dig potatoes buried in the earth and boil them soft, unpeeled. I want to eat so I can look into my woman’s eyes and with my hunger fill her womb with seed and watch her bloom and bring our hungry children to the air, her wet milk on their mouths so they can cry and breathe and grow. I want my hunger satisfied so I can shout a...

I don’t know what I’ll do when I can’t do the things I love to do. I don’t know what I’ll say to friends when they stop by. Will I have the strength to care and ask, how are you, what’s new? Or will I look away and stare up at the ceiling, or look out the window, then close my eyes, whispering to myself, “perhaps it’s time to die?” Who knows if I’ll see clouds covering the sun, or will I see the sun setting behind the tre...

The Civil War isn’t over yet. The Crusades begun a thousand years ago have not been won, and when I read about another Drone, another soldier’s suicide, another stone thrown at a women’s head, another prison being built to rid the streets of anyone who might be one of them, or smoked a joint, or didn’t have his papers in his pocket, I look up at you, Dear Sun and want to cry and not feel shame, and wish that I knew innoce...