In memory of someone who loved this place-
an inscription on a greening stone marks
the trail we took to see the catfish dance-
slowing then starting, shivering in unison,
intent on the surrounding cloud of eggs
they didn’t notice when we slipped our hands in
and felt their fins.
Winter found the faces of summer cottages
forlorn, boarded windows staring like empty sockets
across the ice-bound lake. We skidded long trails,
looked for cracks and any sign of our fish,
frozen mid-shimmer in the greenish glaze.
Next year someone we loved was captive
beneath a stone. We lay on the green grave
feeling down, through the ground when
a lucent flutter above us showed
our fish had broken free. Released
mid air they danced once more.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words
