Saturday, December 5, 2020

A Lake

 [a revised one from long ago]


A lake's a lovely dot

that should have ought


to have been if it weren't.

Lakeside, see the burnt


place inside stones:

campfire. The many zones


of any sort of lake

amaze: here fish wake,


there sleep. Shelves, shallows,

a glass surface where swallows,


evenings, select sweet bugs

to eat. Cool shade for slugs.


Shadows, where the muck

rules. A cove where a duck


feels safe and mutters.

Trees behave like shutters,


filtering light, allowing moss.

Humans can't help but toss


junk into lakes. I don't know why.

In the lake, see the sky.


Sit by the lake. My Lord, the sounds.

Even in small lakes life abounds,


from single-cell and bug to frog

to worms beneath a sunken log.


Fish jump, cruise, dive, and school.

Patient lakeside raccoons drool.


Kingfisher and eagle do espy,

and hawk with an awful eye


perceives a chipmunk by the lake.

(Back up that tree, for heaven's sake.


Made of snow or stream or spring,

a lovely, yes, a functional thing:


a blue acceptance, is a lake.


hans ostrom 2020

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