‘Winter at the Pond’: A Poem by Bhikkhu Nyanasobhano

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Winter at the Pond

I scan the pond. Young birches standing there
Have given up their leaves. I set my gaze
On trees in water and on trees in air,
Where all is peace, with nothing to amaze.

The cold, harassing breeze has dropped away.
Late sun comes through behind me; it will do;
So like the trees I stand and barely sway
As clouds beyond admit a little blue.

Water entirely effortless reflects
Birches like spires, the woods around, deep sky,
While I, adapting, feel the warm effects
Of light rebounding to my needy eye.

Here is a rest in winter’s brief suspense.
Regrets for what I’ve lost or never won
And troubled shadows I once deemed immense
Fade in the quiet and the level sun.

Is this a mercy of the elements
Thus to allow a short release from cold?
Sharp nature scrapes the earth but yet presents
The sunlit birches in a guise of gold.

Or is it just that mind bewildered clings
To unintended, accidental grace
And must let go when cold comes back and stings?
So shall I hasten on from place to place?

Flight is a sad retreat. I’d rather keep
My post of watchful rest and have time slow,
But over there obscure horizons creep
This way fatefully, with their rain or snow.

That little blue dims out and disappears.
The sun’s cut off, all colors lapse toward gray,
And while wide emptiness evokes no tears
It offers nothing that would make me stay.

No cardinal’s bright red against the woods,
No vivid leaves, just dried-out scraps at hand.
The winter has ransacked all earthly goods
And worked a desolation on the land.

Pondering this, I mean to leave, and yet
With wilting hope I’ll try a minute more
To keep attention steady, still, and set,
And in this very bleakness to explore.

My breath is weak, no revelation shines.
The scene is cold, and shifting heavens blow
Over the leaning oaks and upright pines,
While on the pond the faintest ripples flow.

But now above the nearest hill there flies
A gathering commotion like a cloud—
A multitude of shapes that hoots and cries
As it approaches, building, growing loud.

A whistling host of birds, an airy form,
Turns in the space above me, huge and shrill,
A streaming spectacle, a rolling storm
That swings its legions with commanding will.

The birds, unnumbered, circle, swoop, and rise.
What are they—starlings, sparrows, fowls unknown?
What sends them racketing in somber skies
As if to hail or menace me alone?

Have they come here to feed? Upon the ground
Some light and peck, but in a moment flee
Up to rejoin the strange cyclonic round
That teeters over wintry earth and me.

Another moment, and the reckless throng
Disperses into trees, still wild and rude,
Swaggering in crowds—pushing, barging, strong—
And drives away all peace and quietude.

I gaze, beguiled, and do not understand
Whether such discord signals ire or glee
And why this heedless, agitated band
Should linger here with none to faze but me.

Deep to my mind the mystery intrudes.
I take a steady breath and brace my stance
To witness life before my day concludes.
I’ll have what’s real, by effort or by chance.

The birds lift up, revolve, and sweep away,
Bound for another place, with force and din,
Over the country roaming, where they may
Find other hearts to rouse new spirit in.

Now I’m alone to wonder, as before,
But not retired in any sluggish ease.
I am refreshed to scan the pond once more
And let the world be gray if it should please.

Here yet a store of worthwhile substance lies—
The smell of earth, a bird’s lone trill, this heart,
The wide landscape that rushes to my eyes,
The swiftly going minute, every part.

Alone I watch, and winter offers signs.
In peace, unhurried, shifting heavens blow
Over the leaning oaks and upright pines,
While on the pond the faintest ripples flow.

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Bhikkhu Nyanasobhano is a native of Kentucky who for many years has been a bhikkhu, a Buddhist monk of the Theravāda tradition.