The lilies in Goose Lake are now so vibrant and dense, it’s impossible to distinguish their hunger and thirst, their vital processes, their sap, their marrow, from the water that supports them. One is quite literally the other. The same can be said of the atmosphere immediately above: they have taken quiet possession of the gentle, unsuspecting sky, as a child its mother when she bends over the cradle.
The flowers along the path are beyond number. Trying to describe their scent would be as useless as naming a rainbow.
In two wing-strokes a heron descends: suddenly the lake is a pond, distance a poem.
And one who is witness is never alone,
however old the child has grown.
July 7, 2019
Categories: New Poems & Pieces