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Giovanni Malita

Coming to the edge of the pond
the lone willow tree fills me with calm.

Its tendrils, in the gentle breeze,
sway like barely audible wind chimes.

And as the day climbs into the sky
I listen to sounds sneaking through the leaves.

I am waiting for something to drop
into my hand but it is getting darker.
The whispers are getting louder, or

is it something else, like ripples on the pond?
The light is almost all gone but
for the moon, rising from behind the trees.

So I continue to wait for that something
and it comes, it comes quietly

as the night wraps me like a shawl
and I listen, and I hear a distant Loon.

It is calling out to me, telling me poetry
can never, never be a burden to the poet.