By William Doreski
Peterborough New Hampshire
Fragrant lilies critique the pond.
Subtleties of their punctuation
leave us gasping for response.
The water is a dirty pane of glass.
Looking at rather than through it
reveals only dinge and drab.
No wonder aquatic disdain
extends to dry land where voices
sail across wooded places
and boomerang back to intellects
that lack both form and content.
The lilies remain so aloof,
although rooted in the shallows,
that no one considers plucking them
to place in ordinary vases
in rooms where reckless children roam.
The August days simper and preen.
The pond water smell of decay
although fish and amphibians thrive
despite the threats of climate change.
The lilies gather information
to feed their impeccable poise.
Sun, rain, wind, unseasonable heat.
The force of their critique remains
until some moonless night when
they’ll fold themselves out of reach,
leaving everything vital unsaid.