Log Cabin Chronicles

At The Lake


At the lake,
These last days in June
Are like living inside of an opal,
For there is a golden fire
In the sunlight,
A strobe-like flash
Reflected on each wave,
A cool lushness in the trees
Growing slowly toward full foliage,
And there is a certain point
Way out the channel, where the freighters steam,
Where a thin band of milky white atmosphere
Separates the pale blue of sky
From the deep blue lake,
Out where the red beacon on the lighthouse
Seems to regulate the meeting of air and water
And marks that misty point where earth ends
And heaven begins.

Click here to enjoy more of Doug Tanoury's poems

Home | Stories | Letters | Stuff

Copyright © 2003 Doug Tanoury