on this splintering slab of wood they call a bench
perched above the rolling foothills.
Easing down and breathing in,
the wheatgrass exhales with me,
it's a sun-soaked sigh in early May.

The lake looks bluer than usual, right?
cedar woods lean over tepid waters,
ready to dive into the topaz ripples,
their leafy arms mirrored below
as if painted by Renoir’s lustrous brush.

But even paintings lose their color,
pigments fade and varnish cracks,
What happens when the water dries up?
When the cedar woods take their final dive?
When our Mother’s heart grows weak
and her body and bones become frail?

O how we’ll weep for those topaz waters,
and regret our unquenchable thirst,
how we’ll wish we sat there longer,
filling our lungs with Earth's ambrosia,
wondering if the water has always been this blue.