When I lived near the lake

In my haste I left that morning,
my coat on a hook, hat on its top,
and shoes beneath the mantle, still warmed
by the fire's dying coals.

In long johns, with my glasses on,
I trod across the icy dirt in my woolen socks.
Crossed the sparsely laid grass
into the cattails at the edge of the lake.

Until the red at my toes met the lakeshore
where it lapped at them hungrily
and the thicket around me studied me
while it bridged the cloven world.

I waded into the silver waters,
braving the barren and the emptiness,
and I was waist-deep and alone
save for some involuntary shivers.

Out twenty paces, up to the nape,
and steadied by the swaying of my arms
that created fluid motions of white,
back-and-forth, formed of cotton and skin.

The calls of the swallows sang
in the waxing twilight of early dawn.
Light broke over the green-shaded fronds
and those dripping hands of willow.

Still further beyond, and I drank of the lake,
heard the muted sounds underneath.
And the scent of its soil persuaded me
just to see how far I could go.