The Glass Lake

The Glass Lake

Concealed in my lakeside den,
I watch a small, slim figure,
Eyes clear as nitrogen,
Projecting their ocean-deep blueness
With the brilliance of an alien starfield.
His short, gold hair blazes in the ascendant sun,
Transformed into a waterfall of red-gold light,
His whole body an icon of abstracted boyhood,
His mouth fixed into an idol of playfulness.

The boy removes his clothes with defiance and disdain,
His limbs etching out a sculpture of radiant motion.
As he runs toward a high, rock mount,
Body bared to the cool, dawn air,
My eyes are drawn towards his waist,
Where an upright smile sears his thighs --
And I think what joy to be
The father of this little angel-boy.

Reaching the vertex of the mount,
The boy walks to the edge,
Views the glass lake beneath,
Infinitely far below,
Without a trace of trepidation,
Then stretches his xenolithic body upwards,
Arms raised to embrace the exalted sky-orb,
And dives into space with majestic grace.

He hit the water with a soundless splash.
It grabbed his untainted body
And enveloped it like a liquid web.
As he drifted ever downward,
His anguished face pressed against the see-through shroud.
Snakelike lashes lacerated his writhing body;
Tiny rivulets of red diffused sombrely.
As my angel died, Innocence wept on my shoulder.