July Light in the Mirror of Como

July arrives like a whispered vow,

soft on the shoulders of ancient hills,

where cypress shadows stitch the air

and the lake lies open—

a silver page awaiting light.

Como does not hurry the morning.

It lets the sun unspool itself slowly,

thread by golden thread,

across tiled roofs and quiet balconies

draped in the lazy perfume of geraniums.

Boats drift as if remembering

a dream they once had of motion.

Their wakes write brief letters

upon the glassy skin of water—

messages the lake keeps only for a breath.

In the mirror of Como,

mountains lean closer to see themselves,

their dark brows softened by reflection,

as though stone, too, desires

a gentler version of its own face.

The villas stand in patient elegance,

cream walls warmed to honey,

shutters half-closed like thoughtful eyes,

listening to the hush between church bells

and the distant hum of cicadas in olive groves.

Here, time dissolves into light.

Minutes slip like silk through the fingers,

and the afternoon becomes a cathedral

built entirely of brightness and stillness,

where even thought moves barefoot.

You walk along the water’s edge

and the world narrows to three things:

sunlight, breath, and the slow turning

of ripples into memory.

July lingers in the mirrored lake,

painting sky upon water,

water upon sky,

until you cannot tell which one holds the other—

only that you are suspended between them.

And in that suspended hush,

the heart grows quiet enough to hear

what it has always known:

that beauty is not loud,

but patient enough to wait for us to notice.

                                        — Meenakshi Singh