(c) Elizabeth Southwood Aug. 7, 2000
//indian graveyard lake
May Mist
My friend and I talked
as we’d never talked
that May in Cambridge.
I remember lilac scent
pouring through
open sash windows
with their bubbly old glass,
the fragrance of freshly rinsed air,
the white room -
a white-cotton puff on the white, wrought-iron bed,
overstuffed chairs -
ceiling deep in shadows.
A light mist breathed outside.
I was filled with yearning for everything,
everything I might have missed.
I looked out of the
window and saw white blossoms
in the dark,
mist-drops
gleaming in the lamplight.
I could not stop time.
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