Little Platte Lake.

Cherry streaks of heaven lend themselves on the glass like canvas. The water supplies warm-hearted and lovely winds and banter filled otherwise happily empty air. Engines hum across the way and embers crack their scent to waiting Pavlonial memories. I am here but I am also there.

I am young and very peaceful in the scene often a night. I have no idea what I am wearing or how I look… I am just there.

Nostalgia is a weary friend that fools us time again, and procrastination often filters out what we really could be.

It’s the waiting for a better moment that has made us lazy.

Not here though, not in my place of childhood Zen... the place I am always thinking of; where I am allowed to feel young.

The sun at times is bright and others setting slowly—and often not even in the equation. The water is cool whenever I touch it and the birds seem to always be ready to lend a voice to my vision.

You would think that all the things I love would be here with me but they aren’t and I don’t seem to miss them.

I draw them in at times- on my own to make up for slipping into old reminiscent vows of my own future that are now so foreign my head spins. There are people here naturally—but just the feeling not the tactile versions.

Stop. Hold my breath. That soul warming breeze and touring leaves rush by as I feel mossy ground pushing up to meet my feet.

I could go anywhere here and be free.

There is brightly painted grass and always, always the water.

Following it with mapped out footing I find my place in the sun.

I lay in the moments I am allowed to remember so thankful even for a second if I can stay there.

Hours go by and the smell never changes and the sky is still ripe with clouds. And they move. And I stay there.

When warm turns a bit cooler time of day and the cherry sky comes back I again find myself on the water.

Gentle rocking sleepily moving in a time I play again and again.

The day never ends here-- it starts all anew as soon as I find I need it to. How white painted wood and long lines of cotton can move me is comforting and solely understood.

I don’t need to be there long to completely be swallowed in a state that pulls me away. I stretch and I yawn and I pull back to sleep… visiting again another day.