Cristina M. R. Norcross
Feeling her underwater mermaid hair
brush past her shoulders,
she finds the coldest current
and delves deeper into the darkest green waters.
Water skiers skim the vast width of Lake Mohawk,
taking with them flipbook scenes
of gingerbread houses
and beach bathers glowing with coconut oil.
She always preferred the sleepy calm
of Upper Lake Beach –
the circular stone sculpture
that served as a water fountain,
the lone raft she could swim to
and rest on for hours,
examining every flake of white paint
and weather worn groove
from summers of divers.
When the blue-black nights come earlier and earlier,
she savors the mossy green scent of her towel,
the feel of stray grains of butter yellow sand
that cling to leather sandals,
and the sound that August makes
when it becomes a whisper.
I am embers. I can feel that's nothing/new.