Monet Waterlilies 1914
I wrote this poem a long time ago. I spent a lot of time by a pond in Illinois, in a park that was restored to a natural prairie around the pond.
That’s where I first saw the herons. It still feels like a gift from Heaven when I see them. And I still read the Psalms.
There are days
when everything seems a metaphor . . .
I persist with a bottle of salad dressing
that won’t open
Touch the childhood scar on my forehead
now blended with a wrinkle
Am comforted by cards and letters
sent at just the right time
Gaze at the blue heron who stayed
long into the Fall
And marvel at the migrating monarchs
on their way.
I ponder the limits of persistence
for the heron left one day
And feel wounds aging into wisdom
although scars do stay
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