At the top of the world,
Cool summer breeze.
The water like glass,
Distant radio waves echo,
Fish flop in a bucket on the pier.
The sun drowning,
The sky a purple haze,
A lone rowboat making its way home.
Laughter bounces through the still,
A fishing-net lands on my head,
I gaze up at the blue eyes in front of me.
The rowboat is docked,
The water reflects a white marble moon,
Frozen in this perfect placid dream.
A telephone rings in the distance,
The released net sways to the grass,
Crickets cover hushed whispers.
Tears and soft sobs,
Cut through the serenity,
Quieted with my ascent up the stairs.
The musky cottage air,
Suffocating my voice,
Much like the rope did her breath.
I silently freed the fish from the bucket on the pier.