The lake takes a breath of the old me and pulls her under,  silently nourishes the water with my shredded former self as it feeds my struggle to the fish.

The ripples of the mistakes made by this body are so tiny, so insignificant, they do not even reach the shore.

There is no frantic clawing at the side of the old boat as the old me is dragged down to the dank of the silt.

The chill of peaceful relief  reaches my skull.

And even as the water rushes over my remains, the mouths nibble away at my flesh, the weight of my bones lightens and sunlight finds its way through the shroud of yesterdays.

In the heat of the season, even the dragonflies subsist on the fragrance of  water lilies,  each blue-needled body stretches itself in the sun, the intricate weave of its wings revealing no pain from a summer of dancing trough moonbeams and storms.

The laughter of awareness is an anchor to the bittersweet trade of innocence. The day has gone by, the light is scattered, another prism of interpretation has been captured in the awakening.  The remains of the moment become fuel for the poets and dreamers; captured in the fingers of time, this introduction to limitation is easily grasped .

My mind does not seek to repeat others’ missteps but instead blatantly pushes aside wise admonition, fully fills these lungs with the truth of better tomorrows and keens for daylight and sin.

I tie regret to the dragonfly’s tail as it skips across the bow,  its wings gently hover,  for a moment,  before it departs.


I’ve traveled only a fraction of the miles mapped out for my making.  I am but an infant in the lap of learning.

#for Reticent Mental Property.

7 thoughts on “Anchored

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