By Thomas J. Glasco, Poet Laureate
Golden trees shake their copper coins,
Dance into the shimmering shoreline.
The photographer has a lens for form,
Texture, color, and movement.
Mother earth witnesses to his hazel eyes.
He is inherently still even when he walks.
He has trained his body to track
Signs of creatures, and his ears funnel
Sounds like the Great Grey Owl,
Who hears the feet of vole deep
Under the snow.
His seeking spirit discovers
The last vestige of a sand castle,
Near a sandy point that
Extends into the lake.
The water is shallow here,
Safe for the children.
The sound of their play reverberates.
Sand sifts through porous fingers.
He reviews his childhood, and
Pictures pull through his cinema.
He lives by the light meter,
A friend he trusts with his heart.
The last day of September slips her
Arm around his waist.
Her lips set his aspen leaves aflutter.
The embrace holds fast
And the lake drinks of their interweave.
A red ball of fire descends,
Cools in the luscious depths.