Her guilty pleasure was not new to me,
I have been touched by her before.
Twelve years ago I buried my father,
The next day I visited her with my daughters.
It was the place he loved most and that feeling had been passed on,
Three generations strong.
We swam that day without a care,
Slipping into her soothing waters as the world fell apart around me.
Her clear water releasing the stress from my soul,
Water neither hot nor cold, embracing the body whole.
The feeling comes not often,
But come it did the other day.
Fire-fighters from faraway places battled a fire that threatened her,
Risking all to save the forest.
I slipped into her waters that afternoon.
As they fought flames on unforgiving terrain,
I soaked in her warmth.
The stress eased from my being,
Laden with guilt, suspended in her embrace.
The serenity, the peace.
Smoke in the distance; tasted with each breath.
There I lie floating; without a care.
Filled only with guilty pleasure
I hung laundry and it began to rain,
A rain we have missed for some time.
The forests surrounding our mountain lakes are dry,
And on fire.
Crews have been sent from far to save our forests and lakes.
We can’t do it alone,
They can’t do it alone.
We need help from God and today he provided.
The rain fell steady and may give our crews the edge they need.
Rain without lightening—a blessing.
Our community is indebted to the fire crews,
We know them a bit, through their pictures on Facebook.
They look tough and dirty and hot,
And fearless and strong and able.
We repay them in small ways—cookies, cold drinks, other necessities.
It is not enough, yet it is all we can do.
And it helps.
It helps them and it helps us feel a part of the fight.
The fire will be put out,
The crews will head for the next venue.
We will remember them,
We hope they will remember we cared.
Its early morning, tea time
I gaze toward the dock
A kayak glides silently from the fog
Could it be?
She steps onto the dock
Filtered sunlight on her long soft hair
An open, welcoming smile
The memory of her perfume, the warmth of the morning sun
She waves her hand, I lift mine in return
I sip my tea
And like the girl, the memory fades
I’m sixty now, not sixteen
The morning fog lifts from the lake surface
It’s gonna be a good day