Poem at High Pond

Art makes its worlds by choosing,
Which always means excluding.
There’s no choice but selecting

By some criterion, some
Mechanism. Small cut-outs,
No matter how rich the art,

How layered in human pain,
How deep in the cave, how high
In the cliffs where the small pond

Has waited, accepting rain
After the snowmelt vanished,
Exactly the way a god

Accepts food at an altar,
Passively, without a choice,
But scrutinized by people

Who want badly to believe
It matters how well they care
For their high pond, their altar.