It’s summer again.
Following the quiet, meandering road to Cattail Lane,
I gaze across the same lake that cradled my childhood.
Overarching pines smile into a mirror of shadowy blue.
Monarchs, with wings of burnished copper that taper
into autumn, and zig zags of boats followed by cotton
streams dance together from a distance.
Lavender and echinacea blossoms garnish my feet, reaching
for the flowers that climb up the bodice of my fading
green dress. The air enfolds melike my mother’s embrace; it clasps me like a fragile secret
that might drown in the clearest brook. The water darkens
and brightens beneath me, reflecting weeping willows beneath
a placid sky. As I stand here in the pink evening light,
with the flashing fireflies that my dad used to tell me came out
just for me, suddenly, I realize
the view hasn’t changed from where I stand,
but time, like water, ripples around me.