Aubade at Camp Crystal Lake
The first sparkle of morning
has skipped across the lake
like a thrown stone, though light
remains only gray memory.
The canoe rocks back and forth
upon the water, and I watch
your chest rise and fall
to the waves' rhythm.
Your lips part and a whisper
of breath escapes.
The screams of night
are swallowed
in sun-dappled quiet.
You stir, awake, yet silent.
I raise my hand from the water
so that I might touch your face.
The first sparkle of morning
has skipped across the lake
like a thrown stone, though light
remains only gray memory.
The canoe rocks back and forth
upon the water, and I watch
your chest rise and fall
to the waves' rhythm.
Your lips part and a whisper
of breath escapes.
The screams of night
are swallowed
in sun-dappled quiet.
You stir, awake, yet silent.
I raise my hand from the water
so that I might touch your face.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson