You know the one—the pond
that reminds me to drink more water.

The pond that silently reflects
our night fears back at us.

The pond that was two ponds once,
stitched together beneath

an old metal rivet-connected footbridge.
The pond that is alive.

The pond that must not die.
The pond that covers our future

in mist. The pond
that has its own rhythm.

The pond that protects turtles
and won’t reveal its secrets.

The pond that is older
than either of us, but not that old.

The pond that is thirsty.
The pond that bleeds

into a wetland hem
surrounding its littoral zone.

The pond that hums
behind the curtain.

The pond that only rarely floats
canoes. The pond that plays

interference. The pond
that will mark your oars.

The pond that cries
no salty tears.

The pond that sleeps. No,
the pond that never sleeps.

The pond that is not
a pond. The pond

that is a lake. The pond
that refuses to be ruined.

The pond that is not too shallow.
The pond that has its limits.

The pond that exhales so soon.
The pond that refuses to be

a punchline. The pond
that is drunk again.

The pond that flies away home.
The pond that was polluted.

The pond that plays possum.
The pond that did not die.