the green ones filled with agile ghosts,
Long before the school kids tripped along its lawns,
their shrieks echoing across the terrain,
Or the penitents, lined in silk, eased into their pews,
this sacred watering hole lay there like a vast piece of silver,
flat, pristine, unalloyed.
The Tocobaga, Calusa and later Seminoles,
flocked to savor its fresh spring water,
as white ibis bobbed beside great white egrets.
A giant heron, two yards wide when afloat,
and blue like slate, skimmed the surface
surveying its natural domain.
The skyline then was merely shrubs, palms, osprey nests.
The only sirens at night, amidst the swamp,
the shrill winds sieved through shafts of rush.
Then the Spaniards arrived,
and the British, followed by Americans.
Deeds and records were inscribed,
streets platted, alleys bricked,
names such as Weir Pond or Reservoir Lake
were essayed then discarded,
The planners, set in their ways, filled the bogs,
reconfiguring nature’s handiwork.
The spring became a source for urban growth,
pipes laid, bloodlines stretching out
into the municipal maze.
A palace for books was erected, a house for boats,
a dock for canoes. Across the way,
places of worship, of learning, of careless diversion.
Banks were raised, a fountain fitted,
appurtenances of affluence affixed.
The ibises and herons, once homeless, have returned,
side by side with families,
some descendants of those who first came
to gather round this central hub,
others without any lineage to cling to.
A concrete path now girdles the shore,
its circumnavigation metered and timed.
All around new structures ascend,
towering over the watering hole.
But one thing never changes:
The ancient looking glass
reflects the infinite sky.
This article appears in Apr 20-27, 2017.