Just the minimum...
The requisite for an eternal break
From the copious confabulations,
The consuming convolution of thoughts...
Just outside my cabin;
A couple trillion gallons of vitality,
A couple trillion more, when it rains in Bleakvale...
Moist and mesmerizing; the air, that is...
A hundred yards from my door
Sits an oakwood bench, bellow the willow tree...
A drowsy symbiote to the freshly filled monster;
The monstrous bucket of wellness...
Sit and stare at a book I can barely read,
Stealing glimpses of their ethereal amour;
Their providential coquetting.
An ageing witch...satiated
Her hair...dripping contentment...
"Mr. Wood? Your tea, Sir?"
Startled, I flip the hardbound straight.
She leaves the cup of goodness beside me,
A cup of aromatic minimum, as a bait...
Her willow hair, her ocean stare, my aphrodisiac;
An inviting smile, and she walks back,
To my cabin, a hundred yards from this bench.
I sip from one requisite, and move to another...
And walk a hundred yards...from a third...
My eternal break, my standing abode;
A bench, a willow, and of course,
About this poem
The poem, first published in 2021 (in the 7th volume of Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal), deals in earthly exchanges, warmly manifested in the enticing creation of nature, the presence of a mysterious lake.
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Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
"Lake Lostbottom" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 26 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/108694/lake-lostbottom>.