Escape into November

I counsel others to make the time
for art and self; this phase of solitude
I too need vigilance
not only to sort, organize, discard,
but to rest;

not just to complete task after task,
but to play;

poetry these days arises
most often when I plan
escape from routines

an afternoon diversion

here along the placid reservoir

presents early November

in vistas long and broad:

water, slopes, cloudy skies

offering in all directions

challenges to complacency

calling me to alter my vision

each narrow focus insists

I grasp the infinite:

in every waving reflection,

every ripple, cone of spruce, honk of goose,

a  revelation

shores of russet clay

bejeweled with red, gray,

black, gold, curve

their splendid breasts

down to the lake of liquid sky

sun, nearly obscured behind striation, pulses

between sudden warm caresses,

waning lukewarm rays

geese glide the shade

in water so still that

bank and reflection of bank appear seamless

except for hints here and there:

directions of shadows reversing in the mirror

or maple’s gold scattering

the distant shore with confetti

while in liquid the pieces merge

below me a patch of blue

bears a supple undulation of white;

as sun succumbs to clouds

the line between bank and lake

grows in clarity

along the opposite shore

where the sandy beach invites

their stay, geese submerge then shake

a ruffle of sound and a surface fan

spreading mirrored mountains

full of forests, softly rounded

in varied layers and bends

usual concerns can assume

a more suitable weight

during communion with nature

for all her parts possess

in equal measure

grace, beauty, wonders...

behold a world in which the goose

holds no less power

than the massive mountain

Ben Irving Reservoir
5 November 2010

(c) helen laurence