The pond

A pond with swaying waterweeds 
made lush by time 
and living things 
that ripple, swell and flop and fly,

is going dry. Brown reed-stems brush
like fiddle bows
against themselves.
In the rattling draft at night.

All wait for rain. Expectant seeds
will open, grow
new life once more.
New eyes will grasp the emerald light.

These new creatures have no need
to regard the past.
They think unaided.
Their shining skin has altered dyes.

                   -Karen Cronick