Mum swims with eyes closed,
a face that, reflected, runs into itself.
Her children dry on mossy stones.
Sticky with lake and melon,
we idly trace scaled-down,
and brittle coastlines.
Those mottled smudges, grandad would proclaim
pointing at lichen through his coat pockets
have been marching since Alexander. See?
With that, he’d crouch
close to the neon crust
radiant with joy.
I, recalling this, withdraw my hand,
go lie on my back awhile to watch dusk
flash on the bellies of swallows.
From the far side, a rumble rises
and I know just how a motorboat paints a line,
how pike slink with striped torpedo bodies,
how osprey sit in old pines, white wings folded,
how my face, in turn, will become my father’s face.
And, knowing this, I’m pleased with what’s left,
now that the ice has retreated.
