The ponds are black by the road,
like polished obsidian.
Not a dimple of movement.
A disappearing winter afternoon
reflected on their faces.
Tropical ponds.
Water lily pads and grass,
pointing loosely in the air.
Winter,
the kind I understand
is a thousand miles north,
frigid and hard.
Wind knocking on the windows.
Neither place
could understand the other.
As sure as I,
seeing them,
have my own season,
my own geography,
storms and silences.
Countries connected but dissimilar,
belonging to each other,
like both sides of a river
with my soul between them.