The glasslike surface glides along like a skater’s blade
but the tide is high
depths still warm in autumn’s arms
She beckons like the icy caps of glaciers
ever just out of reach
Silken in her sheen
Echos of disturbance untraceable
Footsteps might traverse her surface
were they of saints and ghosts
A photograph stamps her sensory position
as if it were to feel with fingertips
To touch would interrupt her
She is but the softness to an eye
Beheld in her misperception of a single moment
She is ancient without wrinkles
Polished as my Grandmother’s flatware service
once kept in its own well-ordered envelope of silver-cloth
The gloss of mirrored sky, hanging branches and tall reeds lining her banks
become as she
Soft
Smooth
Effortless
only in appearance, as their solid forms hold an otherwise truth
She is a contender for the eye of George Frederick Harris
She envelops all that surrounds her in the sheen of stillness
The air is as motionless as her finish
A deceiving veneer of sink meets solid
She does not feel, nor hold as she presents
A frictionless peace emanates from her glistening face
A limitless mask
I dare not wade
About the Creator
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