Lakeside

Two men cast fishing lines

into the grey glass of an early spring lake

from a dock upended,

forced skyward

by winter's forgotten ice

The lake heaves toward them

in steady ripples,

silver and blue

and their fishing lines pluck at water's skin

in places here and there

The men's shoulders round,

heads bent low against grey sky –

they cast and spin

cast and spin

from the ragged dock

And the cliffs across the lake loom

a pale bite out of dark spruce.

I collected pebbles at the edge of this lake

one bottle green

one earth red

one dove white

They rattled in my pocket for days.

That day sun dazzled

as it crept toward the jagged crown of spruce

Someone played a honey coloured guitar

and the water was golden with sun,

and all of our faces as well.

I saw a young couple kiss from very far away;

the girl threw her yellow head back afterwards.

I cried quietly

because the moment was perfect,

and fingered the smoothness of pebbles in my pocket.