by Zinta Aistars
Painting, "Pec vetras," by Viestarts Aistars
Light, a pale bride, scorned, drags her veil
across the land, curled into its contours.
The lake remembers in its many mirrors
the dark anger of the skies,
crooning softly now, lapping in gentle caress,
shushing and rocking the many bruised places,
the rattled cattails, the flat, round lily pad faces,
in its embrace, mother to all.
Still the thundering woods surround,
torn cloud wisps leaving the procession
in an arrogant huff, one last look
over the shoulder:
I made you tremble.
You will not forget me.