Where grasses bend and troubles leave
Their knotted hearts at the shore.
I am a trespasser, with my shifty look,
Concerned with eyes from the high road.
Too much water biting at my toes.
Of course the dragonflies are many.
Lake-blue, camouflaged, the still few.
Forsaken I kneel, on my brother's turf,
Spitting into the mirror of the white surf.
Mean-looking boats cut through the peace,
Then disappear around the dock's bend.
The waves come swinging back again.
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