Lying on the Floating Dock


Light glittering gently off crests of lapping wake
thick rusty chains groan
in protest of my featherweight
fresh cut wet grass
assaults my tender nose
tainted sour by the smell of lawn mower gasoline
beneath my back
the familiar scent of the old dock
escapes from the old worn wood
and decides to dance among the gas and grass
in a delicious tango
invisible to the eye
but delightful to the nose
high above me
lost in amongst the trees
the birds chatter and gossip
in their own secret way
one of these hidden voices appears
from the tall green trees
a little baby bluebird
is laughing at me
water droplets caress my face
and try to flow once more
into the placid lake
they have always called home
my fingers tauntingly skim
the surface of the icy cool water
inviting me to jump back in
off the docks old cracked weathered face
it is in these moments
when the taste of freedom
resembling closely the taste of sunscreen and chapstick
that the world slips away
and noting else matters


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