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Wetlands
by Greg Gregory

The shallow water waits.
It reflects an illusion of timelessness.

When I was in the first grade,
after a night's rain a large pool of water
stood still as a mirror on the playground
just below the swings.

I swung over it, and felt if I fell off
I would fall into the clear reflection
down into the sky
and never stop falling.

In my retirement, birdwatching,
I see cranes glide in above a marsh.
They return, fragile in their feathers,
delicate, persistent as past dreams
or the blink of an eye.

Remembered motion is magic,
flying on swings, flying into
a soft mirror of water
that keeps reflecting back
things that break its surface.

 

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