The Textures

A Poem by Maik Strosahl

When I recall the moments
I cherish most,
they were not just clear skies,
perfectly stilled forests
and mirrored lakes.

I treasure the textures:
the wisps and shadows
of clouds as they menace
then pass over the horizon;
the bend and release
of a breeze against
the ever green,
the sycamore,
a blade of grass;
the waves as they crash
onto a rocky shore,
the wake as it wobbles the bobber,
the memories that flood with ripples.

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