Craig W. Steele

I’ve always been most envious of
water lilies in bloom,
serene among swirling
cataracts of light and shadow,
each blossom a fulminating
sunrise or placid sunset, depending
on my mood.

Variegated pads in clumps balance
perfectly between surface
tension and perspective depth
upon a firmament of random bars:
dark olive green (betraying
shy trees lurking round
the square-cut pond) intermingled
with cerulean.

Aloof, composed
like a flock of dappled waterfowl,
they radiate an illusion of otherworldly
contentment, forever
floating nowhere.