POND
As sure as we dug it out of the earth, the pond is not ours. Even though we filled it full of the liquid it is, raw water that slanted off our roof, still agile with the awkwardness of motion, that we carried brimming with angles to pour into the shape we made for it where it slumped into being, halted at the moment of becoming. But it could have made itself somewhere else—dank in wheel ruts, or hollows left by fallen trees that are chill with the stillness of place. First published in Magma © Paul Surman 2012 |