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At The Lake

I’d forgotten how it is at the lake–
How the water stills itself
at the end of each long day
and again, at the start
of each new next day.
Smooth and still,
not like glass or mirror,
not like sheets on the clothesline
on a windless day,
not like a full bathtub
before the child jumps in,
not like our jumbled memories. Closer is
the way sometimes the teacher holds a pose
so the yoga students see for once how it would look,
if done enough times, with that peculiar mind of
focus without striving. But even that is not quite
The lake, which stills—
not like anything but its silver self,
stretching to the far shore
giving our restless eyes,
our agitated minds,
our hungry, always moving mouths,
something to follow–
a model for a different way.

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