Late September, Fairystone Park

The lake is pure still air, into which
the woods might collapse were it not
that the woods, too, are airy, feather-light,
poised. The eye comes upon this softness
and tests to see how much it can sustain,
adds the lightest touches of autumn, hints
of russet, beige, even a spot of red,
tint by tint, watching the balance tilt,
until, with the weight of that dark
warm mound, lower right, the woods begins,
ever so gently, to nudge over
into the lake of air..., but just in time
the eye finds winglike shapes
among the leaves, airy interstices,
rain-grey and blue-green lake light,
refined essences of the earth-tints,
to buoy up the land. Across the lake
sits on nothing at all a long smokey cloud
of woods and its almost-nothing-at-all
reflection. This soft autumn mildness
is a fine balance, like the softness
of a cat, arching to your touch.

One dark, boney tree flings out limbs
in all directions, a ballerina balanced
on one toe-tip, making its motions
all ways at once, so as not to disturb
the poise.

Dean Blehert

Last Updated: October 6, 2002