Mists are memories of the lake,
shrouded ghosts breathing their cold sighs,
a silent sermon for dawn’s wake—
but the mists fade, soon, from our eyes.
A heron walks the water’s pane,
stepping lightly in the shallows
like a priest with perfect refrain
midst the holies and the hallows.
Birdsong trickles from the oak trees
and the hot sun hastens all play,
leaves stir with a warm-blooded breeze;
today moves on from yesterday.
The cold looking-glass of the lake
shows gold and green and white and blue;
a catfish leaps and colors break—
old memories give way to new.