And, when the surface of the lake
Appears to be enchanted,
Its stillness causes me to take
My peace of mind for granted.
I float along like creamy down
Produced by some ripe thistle,
And, from the birches’ every crown,
The birds are heard to whistle.
It’s not until a storm blows up
And stirs the lake’s inaction
That I’m aware my mind’s a cup
That’s filled with satisfaction.
And so I welcome every gale
That lashes me with sleet and hail.
Photo by Steven Cordes on Unsplash
