Ghosts on a New England Pond


Cold sting of January
Frost-encased country side
Holding its breath
Sparkling, crystalline, deceptively
Fragile lawyers of hard packed
Snow.
And night adds its own touch
Of tranquil stillness, and encompassing
Star-broken sky,
Piercing shatter cold bright
A New England winter
Frozen in time, neither past nor Present
But some oddly-lighted in between,
The thickness of ice on an
Auspiciously named pond
Trailing cloudlets of windblown frost
Take forms of silvered, whispered ghosts,
Gliding effortlessly across the
Time-thick ice
Part of a dance
That three-four timed waltz of Centuries
How connected Their past and Our New can truly seem
When the night holds its breath,
So as not to blow away their Formed sprite.
Ghosts, pewter clouds,
Shaping men, graceful and stately
Sailing eloquently on frost-blades across the
Time-ness of a frozen pond
Leaping, classic twirling concentric shapes, etched
As messages, tangible concrete through the frost-touch
Of phantom-blades
Two stately gentlemen and their exuberantly dancing companion
Deep-staring American Socrates, authors,
Strung forever across our star-frozen memory.
Skating across a
New England pond,
Silvered ghosts under a timeless
Winter's sky