Elena's Chautauqua

She thought it would be different from  

the usual stops on a vacation map,  

something quieter than a beach  

or the bright hum of a city skyline.  

Instead, she pictured herself walking  

down some narrow street, a book under  

her arm, perhaps a novel she’d  

pretend to read but never finish.  

There would be lectures, of course,  

sermons disguised as conversations,  

as if every word here was spoken  

with a slight echo, bouncing off lake air.  

She imagined the evenings slower,  

as though even the trees were practicing  

mindfulness, the way they bent down  

to listen to the wind, then straightened again.  

Maybe she would take up pottery  

or join some class on the ethics  

of leisure, where everyone would nod  

while someone said leisure is never idle.  

It would be nothing like her office,  

nothing like the traffic she would avoid,  

just a place where time felt like a guest  

you were happy to see but never in a rush.  

She would wake up earlier here, sipping  

coffee slowly by the dock, watching birds  

glide across the water, each one taking  

its time as if it had nowhere else to be.  

And when she left, she would carry  

this stillness with her, as though it could  

fit into the trunk of her car, waiting  

to be unpacked in the chaos of home.