Heavy rains — this roadside puddle
becomes a small lake,
a few days’ wonder that
must be driven ’round
But look! A trio of ducks,
drawn as though to a fixture
on the map,
paddling happily across it!
For them, I’d stock it with minnows —
(where do you get minnows?)
(And is my life like that, but a
momentary failure in the drainage
of some life force?)
But now, see, too soon, too soon,
the lake is but a rising mist, over a dry bed,
a low cloud through which ducks weave
(the fickle things),
seeking a stabler pool.
This article appears in The Other Trump.