At the Lake

Here there isn’t much.

Nothing but deep and wild

stands of thick trees

and the lake.

Between the bird voices,

cicadas. Crickets.

Between the hum of nightfall,

stars.

Sparkles over the dark water,

fire or light of some warmth.

Here there isn’t much.

A cool breeze on a high deck.

The absence of clutter or

places to go. And chores.

Here there is everything

the soul desires.

The clock stripped of its face

and the only things not left

behind.