A deep tureen
concealed by forest foliage
and therefore mysterious.
crafted by beavers,
quiet but for birds and insects
singing her secret name
while raindrops drum her surface.
Dead wood and weeds clog her banks
where dragonflies are born
and grow in her slimy gumbo.
To those who live there
she is the ocean,
the bottomless crater that holds the world.
But as this wondrous old bowl
reflects the clouds and stars
she dreams she is the sky.
©Photo and poem by caf
The Watcher at Wood Duck Pond
One day hiking we came to Wood Duck Pond
and there we saw an older gentleman
sitting in a chair
eating his lunch and watching
just looking ….. and looking
He might have been a Buddha
He sat so still
But there were no ducks
on the pond
or in the air or on the shore.
He was gazing at the stumps and logs
and surface scum
unbothered by mosquitoes
or deer flies
or gnats.
Froth on the water
reeds growing by the edges
stumps rotting in the lagoon
and not a duck to be seen….
Didn’t bother him.
I asked him why he sat there.
He said he watched for ducks
and whatever else might come by
maybe a heron, “it doesn’t matter”.
He just sat and watched, looking.
Not wanting to disturb him further
we whispered good wishes for his watching
and walked quietly onto the wood’s path
where we saw butterflies and snake skins –
but still no ducks –
although I found myself also watching.
by caf
Photo and poem © carole fults
Inside-out Art and Writing 