Early in the morning,
before sun dawns
warmly on this
chill day,
I find myself
at the edge of
the clear lake,
where brown weeds
have washed up
on the grey shore,
and the reeds
are dun and dying.

There is no ice
on the water,
but the grass
is rimed with frost.
The earth
is warm,
if you dig your toes in;
so is the sand.

A night full
of tears has left me dry;
I need quenching.
So, despite the chill,
I dip a foot gracefully
into the frigid waters
and slowly wade in.

It is cold,
but not too cold:
the sun of the
Indian summer
has kept it warm
beneath the surface,
so I dive in
with naked
body and soul.

I feel like a fish
or a seal
as I glide through
the green-y waters.
Beneath me, I can feel
the pulse and pull
of the earth,
the ebb and flow
of the waters,
for even lakes
are pulled
by the moon.

The clear liquid
rushes over me,
cleanses my soul,
and washes away
my tears
and fears.

I am at peace,
alone on this
misty morn,
alone on the quiet lake.