A cloistered place by the lake
Where old things still predominant
Surprisingly over new things
Yet new life abounds
Both imagined and real

A museum of sorts
Where old names reign higher than new names
Where quiet faces stand longer
In the mirror of time
Reflecting a familiar playful benevolence

A place where ultimately
The water washes away everything
Including the deepest things harbored inside us
Even our conditioned moorings
Holding onto us, as we hold onto them

Bratenahl, its own place
Yet a part of something larger
Something deeper
Something indelibly Cleveland
Yet one step removed