One Evening
On a frozen pond a mile north of Liberal
almost sixty years ago I skated
wild circles while a strange pale sun
went down.
A scattering of dry brown reeds
cluttered the ice at one end
of the pond, and a fitful
breeze ghosted little surface eddies
of snow.
No house was in sight, no tree, only
the arched wide surface of the earth
holding the pond and me under the sky.
I would go home, confront
all my years, the tangled events
to come, and never know more
than I did that evening
waving my arms
in the lemon-colored light.
William Stafford
Posted over on Friends of William Stafford
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