Twin pine needles float like a wishbone
joining a leafy grave
the glass stillness of the water
spiced with autumnal longing.
I dream of warm cider and
summer’s last insects dancing
at water’s edge, the still beat
of a cricket like a drummer
to the warmth’s burgeoning death.
Some quixotic yellow flower droops
at lake’s edge, amongst rubble and
aluminum cans. The ragged dock
is testament to man’s machinations,
our desire to make land of the lake,
to walk like Jesus across the silky wet.
Was Christ a water-strider?
Or did part of him secretly sink,
down into depths barring comprehension?
If I were to step from this dock,
would my feet meld with the
buttery clouds’ reflection?
The wishbone drifts away,
out of reach like the moon
unfractured, its magic keeps
would that I had its potential.