HARVEST MOON POND

HARVEST MOON POND

A harvest moon reflects the brass plaque

honoring Jen and Nora.

I sit on the steel bench, also in their honor,

and try not to see the pond.

The now grown trees and shrubs that surround it,

the Cyclone Fence that circles it

keep it safe and innocent, and,

I wonder how anything so ordinary and irrelevant

could have caused such pain.

Water, at once our best friend and our worst enemy,

quenches our thirst, waters our crops, keeps us clean,

and destroys lives, as it did that night twenty years ago.

I walk to the edge of the pond,

see it, cold, brooding, calm,

and know what I must do

to restore balance to the world.

The coin I toss lands with a plop,

like a trout leaping for a Mayfly,

a much happier memory,

and ripples flow in the moonlight.

I have beaten it at its own game.

Then I pray.

John A. Bayerl,  November 3, 2009

This poem I wrote, a year before Gwen died, was a tribute to two high school  students, friends of mine as a school counselor, who accidentally drove into a pond that drained a subdivision and were unable to escape the car.   This was on the 20th anniversary of their death.  They were so young, still in their teens.  They were athletic and full of life, yet they left earth on that night.  In a way this puts into perspective Gwen's death.  She too was young, athletic, had much to live for; yet, she is gone.  That's the hard part to deal with; the seeming randomness of death.  Yet, for each of us, when it happens, it will seem random.  No one really believes it can happen to them.  Now I know better.  My faith tells me that life doesn't end, it changes. Until then, I remain faithful.  

Tonight, Dear, we went to your favorite Olive Garden.  We missed you.