A sliver of the silver
embossed on the lake
by soft, cooling breeze
and chased with clouds
and their hallowed light
(while resonant with names
of other places all around)
seems always that it tries
to find a soundless way
to that calmness and the paths
of Hudson Springs Park—
for there too the air keeps
that silver made of light
and pensive morning mists,
either gathered or spread thin,
thus ever for me present
in its mane of maple leaves
or in the rift and lull
carried over by its name
on the footpath of the white
crushed stones as they clitter
to the rhythm and the beat
of those who stroll and dip
a limb or a wing of their soul
where a poem and one’s stillness meet.
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