On Adam's Pond in Bridgton Maine

Black ripples
and tricks of mind
appear monster
lurking under water.
Slithering fast
prehistoric fins
may drip tatters
while the sinister body darts
through algae slime
straight toward
the mud-drenched and rocky shore
just outside my cabin.

Perhaps Thoreau’s Walden Pond
was the perfect metaphor
for his subconscious,
the water’s surface
like a mirror
looking deep
and deeper
into the self.
But on Adam’s Pond
there is no stillness this afternoon.
There are pockmarks
on a surface slapped with rain.
There are clouds filling on the pond
and rising mist.

The clouds,
indistinguishable from one another
are a melding of pale brown smoke,
gray soot and light.
The loneliest looking fog,
it hangs low and
brushes shoulders
with the rising air.

All is silent
and, as it often does,
nature has led to introspection.

Perhaps my troubles
might not seem so heavy
if like this fog
they saturated back down over pine
and deeper down to pond.
A pond which,
from this cabin’s window,
I don’t believe I own
but fool myself native of.

Or perhaps my thoughts might be
less daunting
if only they would
wrap around me and my cabin
like this dim thick sky,
the fog looking
patient,
lazy,
and sightless
enough
for me to dare
to bumble my way through.
Then, later, I too
could burn away
in the light of the sun.

The fog is an old woman
weaving baskets
out on the deck.
She jumps up
agitated
to avoid
the slightest hint
of provocation
or breath.

One bold rain shower breeze
convinces me of a hope
which seems to promise height
no matter where I am.

Facing the fog I realize
I may be just close enough
to touch it.