The trouble with reflections
is they always slip away,
like leaves upon the water
drifting into yesterday,
like Monet's water lilies
in a misty mirrored sky,
they flower for an instant
but eventually die.


Reclining in a row boat
on a ghostly painted lake,
the flowers fade and vanish
in my gently swirling wake,
just a silver sad reflection
of a painting that I knew,
like a half forgotten daydream
in my memories of you.


Propped against an oak tree
by a bubbling Summer stream,
I seem to see you smiling
in the water's hazy gleam,
and I try to touch your image
but you shyly move away,
like the leaves upon the water
on your way to yesterday...