We quietly slide the blue canoe
into the calm waters of Stone Pond,
the mist sending smoke signals
into the cool, crisp September air.

Barely perceptible particles
of life are skimming and dancing
on the surface initiating small
concentric circles/replicating ripples.

Evergreens in shade are dark totems,
sentinels guarding the interior
standing against a backdrop of
pristine blue sky.

On an opposite bank, the gift of light unveils
red, orange, russet, yellow foliage,
a feast worthy of Wordsworth’s “inner eye,”
and I devouring it in mine.

Soft splashes of early morning
paddling, lazy wanderings,
a thermos of hot coffee
to stave off the chill.

Place and space for reverie,
dreamtime, reading
just drifting, floating,
no need for talking.

Anchor dropped in a quiet cove
books laid aside to rest,
apples, cheese, and chilled white wine,
for a fine pastoral repast.

The mind adrift on water
in the blue canoe
in a land called Nevermore
of a past September.

© By Cottage Lady (patience@bresnan.net)




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Poem About a Rose


Good Morning

Tinges of Fall in the Air (several authors)

That Old Rusted Bucket

I Wonder Sometimes

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