The Pond

BY AMY LOWELL

Cold, wet leaves

Floating on moss-coloured water   

And the croaking of frogs—

Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.

I don’t know it yet, but when I swim around the island this morning, with the sun in my eyes, and the water quite warm, it will be my last swim in the pond for who knows how long? I have appreciated, fully, every swim these blissful summer days, I recognize the gift of this space and time. I have not squandered it. We find out in the late morning that the water has tested positive for e-coli, which happens, sometimes in August. So, there will be a break from our dock mornings. After my swim, I took a long bike ride home past meadows recently mowed, the wildflowers gone. I crossed the river twice. At my desk, I revised a poem I’ve worked on quite a bit that I made progress on, but feel I can’t get it right. So, I must wait. Tonight, in the early evening, I walked with Charlie toward the pink clouds overhanging the river. I was barefoot, and walked in the grass to the still, calm water. No breeze stirred. I turned, and my husband came toward me. His meeting over, he found me out here, and we walked along the river checking in on the day. I am sad about the sick people, the suffering people, the terrible weight of this tragedy on so many hearts and bodies. And Beirut. It’s awful in so many places, near and far, for so many reasons. Inside, I climb the stairs. There is a box of cloth diapers and pins by the laundry room, waiting to be washed. Waiting to be worn.