I felt a need to re-visit this post from a few years ago. There is a magic about early morning at a lake in the north woods of Minnesota. Beyond words, actually, but one can try.
© 2012 Thomas W. Cummins
This morning as I came down the stairs, the rising sun was casting shadows on the wall and closet door after passing through the lace curtain, past the dracaena marginata, and the stair rail. Leaves from outdoors were dancing amidst the lacy and muted pattern.
I found this in a basement box. Written in February, 1979 while we were living in Muscatine, Iowa. No editing or improving. A solo effort flanked on each side by decades of silence.
—∞—
Trembling in the early morning sun
Dewy tears shown with joy on the grasses
As breezes chasing the fleeing night
Shook them to the roots buried
Deep in the dark soil at the woods edge
A drop shuddered
Lost its hold
Fell to the ground
Others fell too
From the warmth of the dawn
Into the darkness close to the earth
Those near each other touched
Meeting … mingling … joining … pulling
Moving
Running … sliding … wandering … merging
Swelling
Flowing … splashing … scattering … gathering … rushing
Rippling
Slowing
Spreading … deepening … quieting
Light, shadows, birdsong
Peace
Solitude
Silence
Imperceptible movement
An occasional sparkle
A lonely swirl
Lingering from the touch of a willow
Drooping to the surface
Cottonwood fluffs suspended on the line
Between air and the green water
Warm beneath them
Hours had passed
The treetops felt the approaching noon
Heat from the sun arrested the breeze
Thickened the humid air
Trapped the rising vapors
From the river below
A locust’s call rang across a clearing
and died away
Water drying on the sweltering mud
Left on the shore from a passing barge
Days had passed when a gull wheeled overhead
Salty water was closing in on our dewy wanderers
The sun had long since set
Last traces of hue on the western horizon
Gone
A horn warned of the approaching fog
© 1979 Thomas W. Cummins
—∞—
At a certain age, I believe
I am standing at a trailhead
Stretching out under my feet
That final path curves out of sight
A hush surrounds
Slowly
I move forward
Uncertain, drawn
Pushed?
Or at the end of a hallway
Long empty walls
No color
No windows
No sound
But echoes poised
My own footsteps
My own breath
For now
Perhaps on a dark desert road
Nothing visible
Beyond the headlights’ arc
No trees
No roadside brush
No stars
Behind, total darkness
Ahead on the horizon a faint glow
Out of reach
Recent health issues
Found me fearful
Anxious
A sense of giving up
Complete surrender
Grudging acceptance
Not of my choosing
Alone
Very alone
It’s not that I’m afraid, per se
What’s next is not of my concern
But I am fearful, sometimes,
About persistent loss, now
Unresolved issues, now
A legacy of being misunderstood
Misunderstood to the point of
Not being loved, honored
Respectfully remembered
Time is running out
Not much to be done
Yet things have become undone
Time is running out
Loved ones unseen
Growing older
Old memories fading
New memories deferred
Or irredeemably lost
© 2014 Thomas W. Cummins
In a dim light... 
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