L C Vieira (Lisbon, Portugal)
The sun rubs warm hands on my face,
and I awake, grateful.
Slipping into my skin,
my ponytails smelling of last night’s fire,
I stride out to meet the crisp morning air,
my toes stretching on twigs and grass.
Some crawl between
as I sneak past the pine cone display,
and onto the dock, breathing in the mist
still dawdling over the lake.
One loon calls.
I hesitate, then reply
with a quick dive,
plunging into the cold.
Year after year, time stops -
and I am that girl,
skimming across the shimmering lake,
chin resting on its welcoming surface,
legs and arms barely moving,
gliding in a soft embrace,
a bride with her groom,
one with her perfect mate.
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