Mysteries

The following is not a happy poem. It was not happy to write, it is probably not happy to read. And I'm not sure it's finished just yet. But the negative aspects of things need to come out, somehow.

I'm thinking about my summer--there an entire spectrum of thoughts to sort through where that is concerned. Thing difficult to communicate perhaps belong only to poetry.

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Mysteries

A lake is an ocean
in a child's wide eyes. It collides
with the horizon and sends up golden sparks,
pink lemonade gushing and overflowing, pop!
Then color rushes into black waves
but still the child is mesmerized,
fishing for how and where, and why?

Something about particles
and selective scattering,
and it's just the tilt of the earth
that makes little lakes look big.

So why's it still before a storm
And how do animals stay warm
alone outside on winter nights?
And polar bears-do they ever bite?
Why do people go to church?
What does daddy do at work?
What makes people sad?
And why did grandpa look so mad

when I told the visitor about all the places
he'd kissed me hugged down on the mattress?

Some lakes shrink as they grow
and yet remains in memory
an ocean impassively wide--
no fisherman can ever touch the sunset.