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

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