Lake Loon
Unsteadily I step onto a dock
where I tie my boat—
stranded ashore.
The darkening lake
mirrors the rising moon,
mysterious and out of reach—
deep sky waters
that curate memories.
A loon calls—
Why do we hear it as mournful?
Perhaps we imagine it
giving voice to our own—
our silence—
a silent gliding
like the loon,
lone upon the watery sky-mirror,
belying a paddling swirl beneath.
Marso writes poetry shaped by years of living within different cultures and by a practice of close attention to ordinary life.
Amethyst Review 