It's All in the Naming

Several times a week I drive down a narrow rural road,
   taking a back way to my office complex.
I’ve used this route for years.
In one place the road dips slightly for about fifty yards.
It took a number of trips before I noticed what lay to the south,
   just behind some tall brush.
“Oh, standing water,” I said to myself as I shifted gears.
That was the name I gave it—
   first name, “Standing,” last name, “Water.”
It appeared to be a field that had flooded years before.
Every once in a while I glanced that way as I drove by,
   seeing little.
One day, taking more than a glance, I said to myself,
   “That’s not standing water. That’s a pond.”
“Pond” became its last name.
Its first name was “Nondescript.”
I still paid it little attention.
A few days ago, sailing past, something caught my eye.
In one spot the color red hovered just above the water.
The color green floated on the surface from one side to the other.
Slender tree trunks stood silent guard.
I turned my car around and drove through the dip again,
   slowly, quietly.
The next day, on a leisurely Saturday morning,
   I made my way to that road, parked my car,
      and walked, for the first time,
         that narrow stretch of pavement.
A fog had dropped by.
Never leaving the roadway,
   since there was no other place to stand,
      I photographed for an hour.
That small body of water introduced itself to me
   as I stood silently nearby.
“First name, ‘Created,’ last name, ‘Wonder.’”
Only when I listened for a name to come,
   rather than supply my own version,
      did I begin to sense this loveliness for what it is.
Only when I got the name right
   could I photograph it with any hope
      of showing its truth.
Now, each time as I drive by, I breathe a little hello.
Often I hear one in return.