Sara Fielder


A Lake Someplace


Speak to me
thee wet and lonesome lapping waves
Outrun evaporation of your grave
along this chiseled limestone shore
where you have passed
through distant bygone doors
Across the lake,
where terra cotta porticos stand tall
and dark eyed maidens wait for men to call
with servant hearts,
and apron strings
expecting all the good things life might bring
Explain to me the mystery of this place
The air is still,
the sun upon my face
weathering whiskered old men
leathered and tanned
who sell fresh fish from a wooden stand
Pausing to smell the cedars high on the hill
that long for a breath of winters chill
Oh, to be liquid just like you
and stare at it forever
through the eyes of a molecule

Submitted: Sunday, July 29, 2012

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