To be with one another,
and also to escape the depression
that leaks into our house from the news on the radio,
we skip down the path,
enjoying the way the sunlight
glazes the trees in mock-summer light.
I haven’t been down this way for months.
I welcome the familiar roots and rocks under my feet.
As we turn the bend,
I spy the sparkling water.
I still don’t know how many times it will take before
I see this sight and do not gasp.
The way the light reflects into the pond,
the distorted trees, the depth
they will enchant me always.

We step onto well-worn rocks.
I breathe in the clear air and lower myself.
Green moss rolls over the ground
creating emerald silk.
I spot the fallen tree leaning, its base upright,
and charcoal from fires of the past.
You grab a piece of the black wood
and draw a line down the white granite.
I join you.

Your eyes skim the landscape.
Then fixing them, you smile when you
find the stretching bald rock.
Reading your mind I scamper
to where your gaze leads.
We each pick our utensil.
The charcoal is cold and damp.
We smudge it on the rock.
As we begin to form the P,
we laugh and talk.
Today the pond is ours.

We finish,
stand back, and grin.
I poke my finger into the water,
testing its non-existent warmth.
Then I plunge my hand into the iciness
and wipe it clean on the moss.
My fingers are lifeless, but no longer stained.

We fantasize over someone seeing our work
someone being touched by the letters,
someone powerful enough to make change,
to end the madness.
I laugh, grab your hand, my sister, and look back.

Peace.