Breeze

By: Kelly Easton

I don’t really care how intimate

the breeze over this slanted lake

that carries seed and song and

breath of summer; summer’s

short, in the north and

southward, pearls lay thick

in the depths, embedded

fathoms you can’t escape

for a summer’s lapse of fate

Autumn waits, its ginkgos ready

to burst into winter’s crackling

fires, late. Icy fjorded

schisms melt into spring’s

forgotten lakes, winged

tidings of late, late, late

Summer sighs, over bent

horizons cricketing aubades

in easterly directions, no

breezes here just hot

heavy, banded days

lithe in glens listing

inward, to circadian

Acadian rhythms of sense

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Kelly Easton holds a Master of Arts in French Translation and Conference Interpretation. She spent fifteen years interpreting in the halls of diplomacy, working with the words of others. She now tends to her own writing. She recently founded Compass Rose Literary Journal: compassroseliterary.com