Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2001 |

Windfall

There is a wretched pond in the woods. It lies at the north end of a piece of land owned by a man who was taken to an institution years ago. He was a strange man. I only spoke to him once. You can still find statues of women and stone gods that he set up in dark corners of the woods, and sometimes you can find flowers that have survived the collapse of the hidden gardens he planted. Once I found a flower that looked like a human brain growing near a fence, and it took my breath away. And once I found among some weeds a lily, white as snow. … No one tends the land now. The fences have fallen and the deer grown thick, and the pond lies black, the water slowly thickening, the banks tangled with weeds and grasses. But the pond was very old even when I first came upon it. Through the trees I saw the dark water steaming, and smelled something sweet rotting, and then as I got closer, I saw in the dark water shapes, and the shapes were golden, and I thought, without really thinking, that

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By Brigit Kelly

There is a wretched pond in the woods. It lies at the north end of a piece of land owned by a man who was taken to an institution years […]

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