Not Yet Spring At The Pond                                                  

It is not yet spring at the pond.

The ice still clasps, in the shade,

the necks of weeds

bound all winter in the shallows.

Above, it is cold, still, blank.

Willows stand and, if watched, show nothing.

Below, in the war rooms of the mud,

algae scheme of sunlight and scum,

of climbing over rocks, eating

leaves, saturated, succulent.

In the catatonic carcasses of fish

chemicals mix, begin to stir.

Motors will move, scales twitch,

fins guide opened eyes.

Cold water now is clear.  But

beginning spring who will win the water?

The groping lip, the filtering mouth?

Or splitting cells,

hanging down halls of light,

desiring to be so thick they can

caress, suffocate, cold-blooded fish,

bend them askew, off-course and down,

drive frog to loping across fields,

the great turtle to carrying its rock

toward a more habitable watery moon?

Or will some catch in the atmosphere

clear this water?  Spread

those slimy bastards like dead mustard

across the mouths of bass, tadpoles,

old granite-backed snapper?

The willows will know.

The ice will be gone.

The weeds will aspire.

Here in the cold there is hope for all,

for it is not yet spring at the pond.

Gary R. Stephens

This is a poem by my friend Gary and he has a new book of poems coming out this spring.