A picture is quiet,
a visual feast.
A picture is still.
Memories meet,
meet and delight us,
comfort, excite us,
stir our souls.
We catch our breath.
What odd expressions
to denote happiness,
stirring souls, hearts skipping beats,
catching breaths, knocked off our feet.

Here is a picture
that cries for a fanfare.
Shall we step in gently
or leap in with abandon?

I must touch and taste and see and smell.
The wind is wild with a glorious swell.
Waves throb on in metronome measure,
beating, repeating,
hypnotic, heady;
what pleasure, that measure.

Diamond droplets fall pell mell,
splintering, splattering,
battering, chattering.
The spray is cold on my cheek,
my tongue.
I climb the rock
I'm agile, young.

I miss my lake.
It is mine, you know.
You have your mountain,
your river, your plain.
I've my dear rough shore.
I'm home again.

by Colleen Gordon

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
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