After dinner dishes have been washed and put away,

I walk down to the dock.

Clouds hover against snow-capped peaks.

The sun, already below the horizon, turns glaciers pink.

Shadows stretch across the hills

like blankets being drawn up for the night.

Along the distant shore,

one last fisherman trolls for kokanee . . .

Below my feet, trout meander between pilings

glide over dappled stones.

The moon rises. On the water,

it is shattered by each wave.

With cupped hands, I scoop up a brilliant shard

and wash my face with wet light.

Soon, the wind dies, and the moon is again whole.

Pale stars, floating lanterns, dot the lake.

I untie my boat, shove off,

and lifting the oars, row across the heavens.

 

This poem first appeared in Poetpourri.

Used here with the author’s permission.