I rearranged some things and hung it so that from a certain spot I can be there again.
It might be a chilly morning in mid-March with puffy cloud of mist hovering above my grandfather’s pond.
I might be standing on my mama’s lonely deck and fix my eyes towards the far corner of the pond’s bank.
The morning might begin to open its eyes and the eventual sunlight would paint the pine tops iridescent.
I may remember the grassy path, the thick clumpy moss on roots and the long and leafy ferns spread out like ocean floor of green.
So, this one I kept so that I might go back again, to the pond behind my mama’s.
My grandfather’s pond, the place of my soul, my childhood, my fresh starts and heartaches.
This one, the one I created with sun dappled green and blue, on old beaten up and discarded wood that quite naturally became trees, I will keep.