[untitled]
Once, I walked along the shores of Lake Superior,
on the cradled, massaged, thrown & ancient stones,
barefoot
in April, scarcely a fortnight since Winter's end.
The waves were not shocking
nor gentle,
only small—persistently trudging over the stones, pebbles,
agates, driftwood.
My feet, glaringly white after a half year of Winter,
stepping tenderly over the rocks,
were numbed and frozen—
a deep ache moved from my toes
to my heels
and up my ankles
and finally into my chest.
I spoke to the lake;
I stepped away from myself and heard,
saw,
let the waves move over my feet and knew—
knew the barren, lonely, cold lapping,
knew the infinity of Superior,
knew the relief of white-caps, the relief of a
growing wave collapsing on itself,
knew the whisper of water charging and then retreating over sands,
knew the ancient smoothness of the agate.
Then I looked to the sunless, gray sky,
turned to face the azure horizon
and did not look back again.
Awesome poem.
