Today, I pretend everything is fine.
The lake is calm, weather hot,
the great blue water stretches
to kiss the wide blue sky uninterrupted,
and the lake beckons,
spreads its arms wide, says,
“Swim with me,
“Remember.”
As I swim, I am part of the wash,
everything drains but the water from me.
I float, unencumbered by the vagaries,
the punishments of dirt. I am above them now.
Light of the water, blinding on the surface,
suffuses what is beneath, coaxes it into
brilliance, fountains and shines
with each kick and stroke that I might
swim among gold and diamonds
and not want; and the water says,
“Swim with me.
“Remember.”
I rest on the beach, marvel the beat
of my blood matches the sound
waves make on the shore.
This feeling of release and gratitude rests
in the breeze, on the water, within me.
Everything achieves a momentary tenuous balance.
And the water sings,
“Swim with me.
“Remember.”
Paper time
Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil
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