A Pond

The reeds are tangled suns
yellow and stiff, smoldering
set stones in the shore's band
that wraps so tightly the wind's tresses,
which ripple and barrel sometimes
into those grassy orbs
that spread and allow whistling passage,
swaying for a moment into a ready archway
above a figure on the thin bank.

Below street-level, his back
to a bench turned away
as he drinks from the bowl of gusts
and breaths deep, his legs
grown in firm and rooted
between two flaming bushes.