Smooth Deception

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