Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Slocan Monomictic

The lake turns over once a year.

Some of the water that rises

And some of the water that sinks

Is the same, I suppose. Not all.

Some of the people returning

Are some of the people who leave

Beginning and end of summer,

Beginning and end of each day.

Not all. Their comings and goings,

Mysterious and incomplete,

Haunt an inner echo chamber,

Turning me over in my dreams,

Confined inside my narrow cot

Of thoughts about the world I know,

Whatever I am when waking.

Some of me, I suppose. Not all.

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