I often think of the pond at Carolina.
And I’m trying to find it now.
So I follow the path.  The path is hard to see.

I go by the church, the school,
in afternoon late in winter,
past the dark evergreens—deep in the woods—

where large icicles hang from a barn’s open door.
I walk in a field with a stiff-legged cow.
My arms in the air,  I remember Bill’s picture:

The Setting Sun Coats Shimmering Cat-Tails.
The pond is golden, each bulrush heavy laden:
Yes, bracted spikelets host such perfect flowers.


First published in Domicile