Shimmers

Shimmers

The sun glanced

off the calm water.

The burgeoning green

of early spring

glistened through the rays.

Our dog Gracie

sat herself down

for a moment’s pause.

My heart gleamed

peacefully, patiently.

My mind expanded.

My soul swelled

beyond my body,

embracing the shimmers

coming off the lake.

Lisa Valentine April 2026

To shimmer—glimmer, sparkle, flicker, glint. A light that starts fragile or tremulous. From shimmers, more light can grow. From little insights and periods of transformation, a fragile new courage or shift in perspective gains momentum in me.

This poem arrived the other morning, after the moment described in it took place as Gracie and I walked. It’s a profound moment when I can still feel it sitting here right now, on a new day, another early morning. The power in simple pauses and in putting pen to paper. I have been trying to write a poem-a-day in April for National Poetry Month. I am putting them in a journal by hand. That is how most of my thousands of poems have started, though some will start typed on my phone before the idea slips away.

I have missed a few days of the poem-a-day, but there’s a quiet acceptance in me regarding that. Previously, I would have pushed myself to write something. Now, I wait for the writing to push me.

I am having a book launch party for my first solo poetry compilation this Sunday. A shimmer of resolve grew into some courage and faith. I am looking forward to the event, although I have moments of nervousness and fear. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Life is like that. Shimmers that grow. Pauses that guide. Poetry that inspires.