The Lake

I close my eyes and the lake comes to mind:
Its silver hue flat expanse extends onward,
Into what seems an eternal; yet is refined,
By thick mists sweeping rolling now forward
That is made by effortless energy, simply defined.
And through the ice cold crystal clear water
Are seen hard and heavy orbs of mitered...stone?
That seems as seeds holding life’s curiosity,
Yet made as gods upon an immortal throne.
While, out of the so solid and still waters,
Stand tall and cracked with naked honesty,
Are grey and fibrous twisted gnarled wood:
Dusted with blood rusted and thickly red veined,
They slowly thrust into dampened ruddy sand
And slowly rocks with a sense of expectation.
The sacred scent of your dear sweet salt
Tingle’s as it teases, to blister out a shear.
I feel it rest upon the wet crimson, soft silk,
Of my now slowly blushing, blossoming spear.
Then, as it thus begins to slowly ebb away;
I try to stay with these steady heady pulses,
And then to rest nowhere else but here,
With your raw warmth: healing all my bruises.