THE pond is cold, steel-blue, like the bright blade Of a hard, keen-forged sword; the cutting air Etches the bare-branched trees against a sky As hard as they; there is no softening shade Of hazy Indian Summer anywhere, To cast its veiled enchantment on the eye. The chilly wind that sweeps across the lake, Playing staccato notes on the dry sedge— Metallic song—dispels illusion's glow. With eagle's eye, clear-visioning mind awake, Standing aloft above a sheer cliff's edge, We pierce the shadowy waters far below. |