by Raphael Williams

Dear heart,

The pond is in bloom again. The water was shimmering

beneath the bellies of the family of swans; they glided past me

and sent me wary looks down pointed beaks. I gave them

a wide berth in the canoe. Their cygnets nestled fuzzy beaks

into their wings, necks arching back in gray beams. Sunlight

slanted down onto the sand in the shallows, and blue crabs

moved against the ground in a bishop’s diagonal stride,

at tense war with the lake and the clumps of green algae

and the bits of driftwood and their own clambering bodies,

their claws raised and desperate. I sat on the broken wicker seat

and thought that I was getting better, and thought how perfect

all this was—because, you see, the pond is getting better too,

darling: the minnows are back to throw their silver slipper frames

into the air. It was like I could hear the flowers snapping open

and the leaves grinning in girlish rhapsody. Gone was

the brown sludge that had once shoved its way onto the shore

in grim lethargy. Gone was the still pond with its glassy waters.

It was brimming with energy, and don’t you see? I gave it away.

I gave away all that I had too much of, and that nervous vibration

looks much better on the ospreys circling above; their eyes

pierced my chest like golden spears, delicate and gleaming.

It will fall out of bloom, soon, but in unpredictable ways—

which I find I am okay with, and I am not sure if it is a sign

of getting better, or of some new madness—perhaps the ospreys

will remain, years from now. Hunched like vultures on bare branches.

Or maybe they will go first; to where, I will not know. But I know

I will be here to watch. These eddies kick themselves up

in the smooth flow—and what a dream to get lost in their currents.

xx

Write back soon.