Reflections (option 5) 'Impressionist's garden.'

The trouble with reflections
is they always slip away,
like leaves upon the water
drifting into yesterday,
like Monet's water lilies
in a misty mirrored sky,
they flower for an instant
but eventually die.


Reclining in a row boat
on a ghostly painted lake,
the flowers die and vanish
in my gently swirling wake,
just a silver sad reflection
of a painting that I knew,
like half forgotten daydreams
in my memories of you.


Propped against an oak tree
by a bubbling summer stream,
I seem to see you smiling
in the water's hazy gleam,
and I gently touch the image
but you shyly move away,
like the leaves upon the water
on your way to yesterday.


The trouble with reflections
is they sometimes are as real,
as the dream world that you live in
and the feelings that you feel,
but the images you look at
from your world of make believe,
are just the flimsy sad reflections
that a broken heart can weave...