By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 1998

Behind us, sun breaks the tree line.
Ahead, the world is theory.

Pier disappears into white thought,
lake and sky one breathing.

We know the island is there.
Faith, not sight.

First, our bench appears.
Yesterday’s beach towel
still draped across its back,
damp with night.

The pier’s end emerges
from its white dream.

Then, a thickness in the thinking.
The island’s ghost becoming solid.

Sun climbs.
Fog thins.
Crown of maples, oaks, and pines
sketch fire against uncertainty.

The tall trees arrive,
their peaks like burning brushstrokes.
Scarlet, gold, vermillion
teaching fog how to leave.

Shoreline draws itself.
Here is water,
here is land.

The same shore as yesterday
born new from blindness,
autumn-bright.

World returning
piece by piece.