It will not always look like this,
I remind myself as I walk, the lake
edging toward full, the bluest blue sky,
the loose fringe of clouds over the hills.
What I will miss most all too soon
is when the green goes gold, the grasses
bleach to straw, ripe for a flame,
practically begging for a spark,
the old oaks standing sentinel,
leafing now, branches quivering
in the breeze, weathering whatever
comes at them with perfect equanimity.
I look to these silent teachers
of serene acceptance—calm, composed,
steady protectors, so well balanced,