Lake George
She saw the lake,
not as one,
but in fragments:
a leaf drifting,
its shadow grazing
the water’s surface.
A streak of orange,
a flash of magenta,
trees spilling their colors
onto the shifting surface,
where light tucks into quiet.
The silence is not absence,
but presence —
water meeting stone,
a mix of shapes
cut into the surface.
A child holds a dandelion,
its stem bending in the wind,
while a pine stump
extends its weathered hands
to the lake.
By October’s end,
the hills carry a quiet change:
plum, amber,
neon green
brushing against a soft yellow.
This is how she saw it —
not the lake itself,
but the quiet weight
others felt,
left unsaid.
Read More Poems From the New York Almanack HERE.
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