Shimmering green,
with ducks and geese,
the pond is a mirror
with a dirty face.
I see the trees,
a pulsating painting
under my feet,
quietly rippling.
I see the blue sky
and its puffy white clouds,
through a wobbly mirror,
a wandering crowd.
I sit and wait
and watch children skip stones.
How many centuries
has this been done?
You are more than a painting
because you can move.
You are more than a film
because I can feel you.
You are nothing less
than a kind of embrace,
a spot to sit,
a special place.
