Walking To Oak-Head Pond, And Thinking Of The Ponds I Will Visit In The Next Days And Weeks

What is so utterly invisible
As tomorrow?
Not love,
Not the wind,

Not the inside of a stone.
Not anything.
And yet, how often I’m fooled
I’m wading along

In the sunlight
And I’m sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining
Days ahead
I can see the light spilling

Like a shower of meteors
Into next week’s trees,
And I plan to be there soon
And, so far, I am

Just that lucky,
My legs splashing
Over the edge of darkness,
My heart on fire.

I don’t know where
Such certainty comes from
The brave flesh
Or the theater of the mind

But if I had to guess
I would say that only
What the soul is supposed to be
Could send us forth

With such cheer
As even the leaf must wear
As it unfurls
Its fragrant body, and shines

Against the hard possibility of stoppage
Which, day after day,
Before such brisk, corpuscular belief,
Shudders, and gives way.