A Quiet Scene Delivers Perfect Opportunity To Reflect Poem by Reginald Reid

PICTURE PERFECT


I gazed upon a sheltered glasslike mirror pond
to see the clear blue sky above unhurried by the frantic wind,
the thrash of trees, and creatures borne within.
Leaves in turmoil with twigs and branches too
boiled around in air as released captive spirits do.
But sheltered calm, unspoiled, the pond
ignored the wind, did not respond.

I saw before me in that perfect picture clouds now encroached,
uninvited, not heralded, not summoned, but they broached
the tranquil scene and rolled as driven on by steam.
They stole the light, the sun was lost.
The air went cold, as if a frost
had come to ransom all
while wintry sky now cast a pall.

In my soul, no, in my heart I felt the stab of pain,
this antagonistic play of portentous rain,
this challenge to my perfect picture,
foul weather and its stricture.
Dare to look again it said,
that voice that lives within my head,
see now your painted pond picture is nearly dead.

Tears like pointed crystal spheres cascaded down upon the pond
making myriad expanding arcing ripples on and on
multiplying, growing, racing over the mirror field
without barriers, all did yield.
So was the perfect picture disturbed and blurred
until the sun's rays beamed from behind the clouds like spears,
bold streams at first and then fine fingers to stem my tears.