Feeling her underwater mermaid hair

brush past her shoulders,

she finds the coldest current

and delves deeper into the darkest green waters.

 

Water skiers skim the vast width of Lake Mohawk,

taking with them flipbook scenes

of gingerbread houses

and beach bathers glowing with coconut oil.

 

She always preferred the sleepy calm

of Upper Lake Beach —

the circular stone sculpture

that served as a water fountain,

the lone raft she could swim to

and rest on for hours,

examining every flake of white paint

and weather worn groove

from summers of divers.

 

When the blue-black nights come earlier and earlier,

she savors the mossy green scent of her towel,

the feel of stray grains of butter yellow sand

that cling to leather sandals,

and the sound that August makes

when it becomes a whisper.

 

 

© by Cristina M. R. Norcross.

Used with the author’s permission.