You stand at the creek’s edge.
The trees behind you reflect in the water,
ghostly, uncertain in the ripples.
You could turn around.
The actual trees are there, behind you,
straight and strong, each like sharp and hard,
the last remaining leaves darkening with mold.
But you prefer the reflection.
Softer, changing with the wind,
a character flaw, your love of romance
About this poem.
Yes, I am a romantic, in the classical English poet form of the word. Yes, it burns me from time to time as reality strikes. No, I don’t plan to change.
The picture was taken at a nearby creek. It is the reflection of trees. I flipped it upside down here to look like the tress themselves, but it is a reflection none the less.