It was the first time that I had ever hated the sound of my own name. "Tommy, you're up," the coach had yelled down from the entrance of the dugout. I was sitting on the end of the bench next to my ... [+]
One brisk, yet warm November day
I paused, set down my rake,
And took a moment to look upon
The quiet, sleeping lake.
Its face was still and smooth as glass
As far as I could see,
And not a soul was there to watch,
Not one, apart from me.
I stood there silent, calm, at peace
Until the moment passed,
Then stooped to take back up my rake
And turn back to my task.
I know not long I lingered there,
Upon that rocky shore,
But oh, how I wish I could return
And linger there some more.
I paused, set down my rake,
And took a moment to look upon
The quiet, sleeping lake.
Its face was still and smooth as glass
As far as I could see,
And not a soul was there to watch,
Not one, apart from me.
I stood there silent, calm, at peace
Until the moment passed,
Then stooped to take back up my rake
And turn back to my task.
I know not long I lingered there,
Upon that rocky shore,
But oh, how I wish I could return
And linger there some more.