Painting by Hector Pineda
Newfound Lake, New Hampshire
This one instant paints my dreams surreal
as a metaphor: large lake improbably
waving from my auburn hair.
The vision is crystal clear when
I am asleep, breathing
like shallow surf on pebbles.
Is this your home?
The quiet squelching of water between boulders,
the liquid lusciousness of laying
arched over a flat stone.
What is the lake to you, really?
I’ve been asked, and can no more answer
than the mussels in the sandy shallows know.
The lake is and the lake is enough.
It is the point from which all
my departures take place.
The lake is the source of tears,
the spring into myself,
and it fills a life unlike any
I imagined on the rocky shore.
Jillian Bledsoe
Posted over on Press 1
1 comment:
The journal is actually "Press 1."
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