Hoisted upward by the hips, the body, a drenched hairpin
but for the flailing tornadoes storming rain in four directions,
pauses to admire the face-to-face image just after cresting the surface;
recalling to life the first love a life knows, an infatuation really,
perhaps never outgrown, a child’s favorite blanket
stored in a pillowcase at the bottom of a drawer that over time
is shared with only the closest friends less and less frequently.
Winter claims his kingdom,
petrifies the world below, forgotten
underfoot, under skate, under snow,
under the frigid table of inactivity.Through the aged mirror pane thickened with chill,
a fading picture, almost recognizable,
is stricken, paused in time. Still,
heartbeats pound out of the red clay, dim
and rhythmic as a dying clock, barely
reaching up to their solid roof.
Boaters part the hair of the water,
swimmers take to the sand,
and Summer dredges up the long sleeping
or long dead flotsam from below.
A deep, rumbling growl, the belly of the lake,
demands the return of what it relinquished:
“Come back and get your sea fins.”