What the Lake Knew First

I came to the lake before April confessed,
Before blossoms decided where longing would rest.
The mountains were careful. The water stayed true.
I thought I was early. The lake knew of you.

I stood where the stillness rehearses its part,
Let silence grow fluent around the heart.
A presence passed near me—or almost did so,
Enough that the air learned something it knows.

I looked up too late. (Or the moment declined.)
Some meetings arrive without bodies aligned.
I left with the feeling one carries away
When a place keeps a secret it won’t yet betray.

I learned later—quietly, secondhand—
You came after, walking the same pale sand.
Not rushing, not loud, like restraint is a vow,
Arriving with memory already allowed.

The lake had adjusted before you were there,
As if it were holding the shape of your care.
So now when April returns to that flame,
I wonder what time was protecting by name.

For if I arrived first and still felt you true,
Perhaps I was never ahead of you.

The blossoms kept falling. The lake kept its name.
And somewhere between us, timing learned flame.

—

Set in Japan, Spring 2024
By Casey Huang
From the Still Poetry House archive