Cypress Lake, Changing Lenses
Many mornings fog hovers above the lake diaphanous,like a silky coverlet, gauzy, filmy, eerily ethereal.
On protruding knees, the young trees stand,
wooden statues, sentries of the watery realm,
gnarled, notched, knotted, as arthritic bones.
Other times mist drifts in from the south, heavier
than fog, lighter than drizzle, it obscures the trees
with a smoky screen, rendering them distorted,
barely there, but somehow strangely alluring
like a mysterious woman behind a grayish veil.
Oh, but when the rain comes all is pandemonium,
the cypresses plead with the wind to shake it off,
the surface of the water is roiled as if riddled with bullets.
Only impressions of trees and water remain,
but it is soothing to know they are still there.
Today, sunlight sweeps out the fog, the mist, the rain.
The landscape comes into focus--all is serene, dazzling.
There are infinite ways to observe our lake,
each season, each day, every hour it changes
and when I witness its revolutions,
I too am not the man I was before.
Poetry by William Hughes
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Written on 2025-12-10 at 17:25
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