I wake and pace
the abating lake-
hear the osprey chime
from his perch among
the pines,
where the sun has
just begun to steep
the highest branches
in July heat.
My path is
still shrouded
by the cool shadows
that came with
night’s sleet.
As the light
comes on slowly,
I notice bindweeds
consuming lamp posts
and bank-side seating-
see the ducklings
slice through
lagoon-green like
a Spanish fleet
gone feathery.
It’s the little things-
a hundred little things-
to which I cling for solace
since my nights have
devolved into
restless dreams
drenched in a grief
so thick it seeps
from fluttering eyelids
and leaks past
sealed lips.
But every dawn
is gilded,
and the weather here
is perfect.
It’s all too still,
too golden,
too good for someone
who has a hell of a lot
more good to do.
I wake and pace
the abating lake-
trying not to
disappoint
you.
pm poetry 