I think that when I hear your name spoken
the memory of grey-brown eyes
will ever return.
The vision will reappear as does the image
of a lake in the Rockies which
after so many years, still affects my judgment
of true beauty.
These two perceptions have become as inseparable
in my mind as joining lovers
who sense that they have met before.
Mirror and windows, eyes and lake are so alike.
My joy is watching a calm surface
so truly reflecting the surrounding beauty
that reality and its likeness
merge into one pattern.
And yet with a closer look, the surface disappears
as, feeling weightless, I view the magical depths
leaning ever nearer until the fear of drowning
dissolves the dream.
My own image briefly emerges floating
between outermost and innermost,
causing me to wonder where it belongs.
The question will probably last forever.
Memories of eyes and lakes have a way of enduring.