Where the Pond used to be

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Where the pond used to be,
clear blue water,
rippling tracks parting in the middle
where two swans glide,
as their large, white feathered wings rest.

Where the pond used to be,
the tall oak trees with their thick branches
and symmetrical brown stems
release green leaves,
their edges beginning to fade to a burnt orange.
The sagging willow tree,
shading the sun lit grass
and protecting the slim white leaves
that slowly glide down from the trees
weak, slouching branches,
is my shelter.

Where the pond used to be,
is a release from screaming voices,
echoing against the cracked white walls,
bouncing against the chipped marble floor
of the kitchen where the yellow flickering flame
is our main source of heat in a chilled home.
Sour, bitter aromas
that climb up my nostrils and drag
the tears from my squinting eyes
while my callused, dirt covered hands
clasp over my mouth,
and I long to go back
to the pond that once was.

Where the pond used to be,
is a crescent granite rock,
protruding from the brown crumbled dirt,
the resting shoulder for two drooping lilies
surrounded by stones,
etched with names and dates alike,
a deep dusty hole for every person,
and mine is here,
protected under the old willow tree.





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