The ponds are black by the road,
\nlike polished obsidian.
\nNot a dimple of movement.
\nA disappearing winter afternoon
\nreflected on their faces.
\nTropical ponds.
\nWater lily pads and grass,
\npointing loosely in the air.<\/p>\n
Winter,
\nthe kind I understand
\nis a thousand miles north,
\nfrigid and hard.
\nWind knocking on the windows.
\nNeither place
\ncould understand the other.<\/p>\n
As sure as I,
\nseeing them,
\nhave my own season,
\nmy own geography,
\nstorms and silences.
\nCountries connected but dissimilar,
\nbelonging to each other,
\nlike both sides of a river
\nwith my soul between them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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.…<\/p>\n