(Photo by : Todd Quackenbush)
November falling rain
with the leaves as slick as oil
the air crisp and clean burns my lungs
as the air is heavy with rain
a gray sheen lays wearily on the trees
and on the grasses, turning the lake to shale with white caps
wrapped up in loneliness a seagull cries out
it’s voice piercing the day like a dagger
I’ve come to the water’s edge
to breathe in the holiness of my surroundings
and feel the cold world seep through my shoes
there is no warmth but the warmth of my body
wrapped up and caved in on itself as I brace from the cold
my ears turned pink as if the wind has embarrassed me
as if the day knows my reasoning for being here
what is it I seek among the rocks and high grasses
another lonely soul
another figure with his hands shoved into his pockets?
his body emerging from the treeline?
or maybe a pair of brown eyes as warm as the inside of my Carhart with a jaw as firm as the concrete I stand upon?
And his hands, what of his hands? Warm and calloused? Will he smell of peppermint and something warmer? Will he be relieved to see me?
There on the lakeside, I pleaded
with the gray sky above me
for answers to unasked questions and for tenderness and mercy
I am answered only by the cry of the gull as the skies open up with a misty rain falling on the lone soul
as I stare out on a freshwater sea.