Ten days into May
the Widow Wyile is replete
with boat float gloat
that pure pleasure
of the pull and slap
of her paddle in water
the serenity of a still lake
bathed in sounds of honking
geese     the lap lap lap
of water against her hull
the cry of a red-winged blackbird
perched on a silver weathered tree
root reaching towards the sky
the golden shimmer
of a small tree leafing
against the still dun bog
subtly lit up around the edges
by bushes with small white flowers
deeply pleasing moments
full presence
buoy life