Down by the lake where the air had lost its breath mints and cattails wobbled like golden hobos, you could see a little house across the chop; squatting on the far shore, flanked by tall evergreens and nameless trails receding on ghost feet with tiny little shells for boots.
     Down by the lake you could see a light in the window with the Chinese maple fascinator off to one side in an offshore breeze. And rampant ivy, raiding the pantry of a thatch roof overhang for sun crumbs and pelican pies. You can just make out the door that seems to stand between worlds, slightly ajar.  And a chimney as stoic as a bone with a granite crown.

You’ll be back next year.