Wood Grain

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I want to be standing on the end of a dock on a still lake,

A dock I watched my dog run off of only to sink like a stone.

I want to stand there, toes on the edge,

And dive into crystal clear solitude.

But when I look over my shoulder,

There are a hundred people and responsibilities personified,

Decisions I’ve made and questioned turned into demanding strangers,

Charging up to me,

Foaming at the mouth.

And there I am frozen.

Even my imagination is broken.

Photo Credit Gerry Church. Willow Lake, Prescott, AZ

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