Higgins Pond Poem

I don’t really have service here.
But I do have Queen Anne’s Lace swaying in the breeze,
A fallen log that offers a perch above the sand,
And the Cape Cod sun searing through the clouds, refuting theYahoo Weather app’s insistent report
of partly cloudy, 65 degrees, 50 percent chance of rain
starting at
9AM.

Now, as the sun warms my bare arms,
and a light wisp of a breeze cools them,
the clang and clamor of all the competing forecasts and
various weather apps shouting at each other for dominance
fades away.

I am grateful.

The still water glistens just beyond the sand,
embracing a patch of lily pads and promising
A campfire that dapples its dancing light across the pages of Greek mythology and
Pure young faces,
Soft trails of fallen pine needles that rustle softly under my bike’s tires,
And all of the trees that, year after year,
Stand silent and watchful.

Is this eternity, this endlessness, because my soul and body
Of memory
Alight upon a branch and do not depart?