... poems ..., ... poetry ...

Irish Lake

such playful eyes

green emeralds.

a warm stroll along

an Irish lake.

they say that i’ll

tire of this.  well,

when have they

ever been right?

at the edge of this trail there’s an old moss covered log

let’s sit here and rest awhile, watch as those

rippling waters ease into a mirror.

the sky checks herself in it, and is satisfied

with what She sees.

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