The Poems of Magic

The Silver Native Lake

➤The Silver
Native Lake➛

↼↺⇌➤➛

We paddled on the pools of argent and rainbow light,
where the cold Midwestern sky gave way to night.
The Natives' ghosts followed us from the trees,
breathing their warm, summer breaths of ease.

It's where we confided for such a short time,
among the silver North shores colored lime.
Our hearts were filled
with the warmth of today's dreams as the sun set on
the horizon, just a crimson disc floating on the calm waves,
it's light so brisk.

Encased in the lake's caress,
we danced inside it,
knowing we were blessed.
The sun's rays were like
heaven raining down on us as we leaped into the cool, golden dusk.

Loons sang their morning songs of evening,
calling from the distance as the rippling waves shimmered with a quiet meaning.
The seashells lay sunken in the sand,
the only memories from the past, Native land.

The moon and the Great North Star rose and fell together,
gently pushing the waves, a crescent in the sky and a fiery marble.
One was a rock you couldn't reach,
the other a flame you couldn't breach.

The whispers of the old came with the wind,
only wanting to befriend.
We had just settled in the wooden cabin,
and the frogs greeted us with croaking grins.

With dreams of flight and summer nights, we slept
by the shores of the silver, Native lake. I read in the arms of rope
and leaves, another world in the palm of my hand,
smelling the pine and cinnamon thieves.

Mirroring in the big, shining lake,
a reflection of another world beyond, the daunting tempest rolled in,
causing the ground to quake.
I stood on the dock
and watched it flash and flicker, wishing it could've come a little less quicker.

We journeyed in little boats to the imaginary Skull Cove,
where the sun was dim like the embers in a dying fire pit,
and I imagined I was a pirate sailing on a great clipper,
adventure tainting my blood,
a newborn Day Tripper.

Our paddles cut smoothly through the silken, Native Lake.
Swish, splash...swish sploosh, the water carried us
away into the foggy, haunting atmosphere, inside our miniature canoes.

Music chimed in our ears,
the scent of burning pine and
the salty lake drifting away our worries and fears.
I will forever remember the yearn for wings as we lived
on the edge of land in which the Lord always brings.

And the ghosts of the Natives followed us from the trees,
breathing their breaths of ease,
forever shifting the waves of the calm Silver Native Lake.