by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We were hoping
to catch a glimpse of
the one who made this place,
a summer home
by the water.
We wanted to see him or her,
but we keep missing him.
Perhaps if we rise
early in the morning
when it is still dark
we will glimpse this one.
Or if we delay in the evening,
when the summer light
lays on our shoulders
for endless hours,
we will see the builder.
I know he or she has left gifts everywhere,
like the pile of stones
at the water’s edge.
It is a masterful display
of color and size,
each one shiny
from the motion of water,
a universe within itself.
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