A walk from the house past the blueberries and the vegetable garden will get you there.
At ninety-one she drives the lawnmower.
Pine trees and a bench
Mark the best place to fish.
Bream and bass bite the crickets from the Exxon store down the road
Eat the worms we found under leaf litter in Mingo swamp.
She goes there when the weather’s right for fishing.
Some days she just sits on the bench he made and looks out, remembering.
The calico cat that showed up after he died sits beside her,
nestling her arm while she fishes.
She, who never liked cats, rubs his head with her free hand,
Elderflower perfume penetrating the air.
Yellow jessamine hangs from the trees, scenting the air every March.
Wild black raspberries ripen there in July.
Goldenrod blooms when October arrives, and
Ducks dive from the banks in December.
Before he died they shared two hundred twenty-eight seasons,
Raised seven children who fished at Minton’s pond.
Children visit, bring bait and grandchildren.
Fish cleaned and fried in her kitchen minutes after they leave the pond
Water yesterday’s memories
Bring new life to the future of Minton’s Pond.