The trees appreciate the lake for its innate charm but
also how well it reflects them, particularly on this day,
and how the lake surface shimmies them as the wind
lifts their undersides, and the lily pads just show up,
mythic symbols of the grief of separation. The trees
and the lake feel separated by the water, but they need
it for what they love; see above. Lily pads are each
attempt to bridge that gap, a cluster of phone calls,
the space of months, regular islands of contact on the
double flipside of summer. Sometimes a lily pad can
support a frog, occasionally two. Today the lily pads
are little thought balloons, each asking why. No
flowers, no answers.