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Mary L. Gardner
One day, while sitting at a rest stop along Onondaga Parkway, I met a woman who was picking up trash that had collected on the shoreline and over a broken cement slab. I began thinking about how widespread might be the dreams for a “living” lake again—from governmental entities, the Onondaga Nations, the elderly with memories of how it used to be, those investing large sums to reverse its near death, even poets. I began to think about the lake as a metaphor for return of light, slow awakening which can occur in all kinds of settings, our personal lives, too. More and more my poetry now turns to passing reflections not always fully considered, just embraced and imagined, having to trust that there are inklings of wisdom there.

Slow awakening
in the dark swirls below —
a lake comes to life.

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