It’s not often I brush such undisturbed air
than when the tumbling breeze does ruffle my hair,
or the bright set of night, all purple and green
paints the streaking of stars and the cosmos’ sheen.
For the hour when moon-chilled sand melds between toes
and the pleading cicadas make themselves known
is the moment I muse how I remember
the savor of smoke and glow of bronze embers.
A sheet of still water sleeps under the sky,
the bobbing of boats is a strange lullaby,
and I want to lie back and drift far away
by riding the the pale moon into a new day.
Starlight rains down on me, so near I might touch
and preserve this instant with a single clutch,
from warm, trickling water to igneous skies
and toasted marshmallows with sand on the side.
This secluded patch of the world stitched by trees
with its moaning loons and everlasting breeze
embodies my temple in each sound and smell,
from the whispering reeds to the sighing swells.
For it’s here where I shed the dins and the skins
that toughen and bind me to societal whims,
and I know that sooner or later I’ll leave,
but I’ll never forget this midsummer’s eve.
I wrote this poem a while ago as a memory of my summers spent on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. They were the most peaceful and perfect days out of the year, and I only wish that I still had time to go there. Lying in the sand by the water and hunting the purple sky for shooting stars was the highlight of my summer.
Stellular Scribe 