What Is To Be

This is the little lake on the last day of summer

a black water hen is duck-diving in the ripples

time passes ever so quietly

as the sky floats by

look again tomorrow

when maybe autumn brings sunshine

to peg my clothes on the line.

Some days are fine.

All days are always 'What is to Be'

the lake is lake,

the sky is free to be whatever breezes easily

so I will contentedly be me.