I wonder if the children in the rowboat
will remember this particular morning,
the lake restlessly turning over
a thousand scintillating points of light
except for one calm, mirror-like swathe
through which the man rows calmly,
his boy and girl looking out
from the prow of the wooden boat,
while all around them little flames
move across the lake, never arriving
anywhere except into this moment
which seems to me closer to heaven
than any other thing that man or god
might possibly contrive.
© by Ginny Lowe Connors.
Used with the author’s permission.