Unable to get into the Monet show, Too many people there, too many cars, We spent the Sunday morning at Bowl Pond A mile from the Museum, where no one was, And walked an hour or so around the rim Beside five acres of flowering waterlilies Lifting three feet above their floating pads Huge yellow flowers heavy on bending stems In various phases of array and disarray Of Petals packed, unfolded, opening to show The meaty orange centers that become, When the ruined flags fall away, green shower heads Spilling their wealth of seed at summer’s end Into the filthy water among small fish Mud-colored and duck moving explorative Through jungle pathways opened among the fronds Upon whose surface water drops behave Like mercury, collecting in heavy silver coins Instead of bubbles; some few redwinged blackbirds Whistling above all this once in a while, The silence else unbroken all about.