The way the sun on the water,
actually on the very tips
of the small ripples shines, no
reflects, maybe glitters,

no, of course, the way
the sun ripples, that’s not
it either for it’s just the tips
that shine, no, glow
no that’s not right.

Did I say I am speaking
of the lake outside my window?
Have I said it eddies and streams,
fed by five small springs?

But the sun on the water
most days in this season
for days and days on end
right about this time
obviously, however, only
when the sun is out
and clouds are few.

gold coins tossed across the surface
each caught by each tiny ripple
for the briefest moment then passed on
to the next, ripple, moment

like stars flaring in the sky if
stars shone gold like the sun
and each spark was a twinkling
and if the sky were water, blue
and deep, not black and far away.

Needless to say not in winter
when the lake and sky are ice
and the sun fierce and frozen low
at the end of an endless tunnel
grey on grey, opaque, endless.

Have I said these days my love
makes the coffee and makes me
a fire before she leaves
for work so I can sit and see
what I can see?

Bruce Taylor is curator of Local Lit. April is National Poetry Month. This poem originally appeared in the Spring 2018 issue of Crosswinds. For more by and about Bruce, visit his page on VolumeOne.org or his Facebook page.