The shadows
lengthen and the water glistens orange yellow,
drops of gold
shimmering in the water like the fishes darting,
and even as
they settle down after the frenzy, comes the breeze,
gently
trailing it’s fingers on the surface and setting it off again.
The lilly
stems respond to the murmurs from the ripples,
and bend
their heads towards each other to share the secret,
the entire bed
is soon abuzz with news that the wind blew in,
the gossip
columnists hard at work adding their juicy bits.
However, the
lake remains somber and meditative in repose,
the angst of
separation fresh in her still waters as they pine,
as they lap against
the stump that stood resolute in the middle,
unmoved by
the activity and emotion all around in the water.
For the
birds of summer have taken wing at the onset of winter,
seeking the
warm climes of their nesting grounds up North,
cold
heartedly leaving without turning once to see or say goodbye,
for they
think their scintillating company was worth the lake’s while.
A brief
interlude every summer that breaks the lake’s resolution,
and along
with it, her tender heart that has just had its scars healed,
the lilies mumur
their commiserations and cluck at the inevitable,
and the sun dips
in the horizon in its unchanging watch over the lake.
