The Poem

In the apparent
vacancy beyond
each line, you might
sense the poem

waiting to think
itself. Imagine
the surface of a twilight
pond in wind,

shifting and changing
the sky, then
going still
as a concentrating mind,

the far trees
deepening
in its reflection.
Like the poem

the pond’s alive —
its beauty (the sudden
scintillation of a hundred
thousand wavelets)

and music (the percussion
of a beaver’s tail)
arising from what it is.
And when the pond

accumulates
the darkness,
which it loves,
it challenges your eyes

to find the light
that without darkness
you could not see.
Wild campsites

you never noticed
now appear
along the far shore
It’s not only itself

the poem waits for
moving line by line
into its own dark.
It waits for you.