SOMEPLACE THIN

That hour in the evening,
when magic works its way into the landscape
and shadows start to loosen into darkness,
the light on the lake becomes rare and lifted
in some mysterious way.
Trees lean inward –
or so it seems –
no longer afraid of their reflections,
no longer struggling with everything they have to carry.
And, for a while, at least,
there are no longer any expectations.


Words and image by Sarah Rehfeldt. Please do not copy without my permission.

Poem and image published in Third Wednesday (Summer 2011) and reprinted in The Write Place at the Write Time (Summer issue, 2017).