In the longing ripples midst shoreline grass
one may find oneself. In the dawning shroud
of the breezed lake isle, shadows pass
before it all becomes clear, as lifting- the cloud
rises up like sunrise and alas
one may think of Yeats, far from the crowd
gazing out, finding words inspired
in the want of known peace, so desired.
And like longing ripples finding shore
or trees that thrive on looking out
to the lake, there opens up a door
for the boat to drift and bring about
an ease of flow from the very heart's core.
And the sturation knows no doubt
lakeward to land. There is depth of skies
and winded thoughts of a poet's sighs.