We Come to the Lake

We come to the lake and talk to the water
with stones we skim across her glassy surface,
As we dangle bare feet from the edge of the dock
our eyes scan her familiar coves,
looking for evidence
of our younger
selves.

We come to the lake and talk to the water
with toes plunged deep into cold pockets,
with laughter that skips over her silvery ripples.
Like sea sponges, our hearts
gather new memories,
hold them inside.
Always.

In the trees, a mourning dove calls.
Up the hill, a screen door slaps shut.
Across the way, a fisherman trolls.
Doves and doors and boat motors—
they talk to the water, too.

And she listens.

Soon, too soon,
we leave the lake and say goodbye to the water
waving farewell
as we drive over her bridge,
once more,
this time not to buy
charcoal
or hot dog buns
or Miller Lite.
This time,
we drive west toward home,
to enthusiastic schnauzers,
garden beds that need tending,
the backside of summer.

And the lake?

In her omniscient way, she knows.
She knows when we come and go,
and she senses how much she means to us.
We swallow lumps in our throats
as she sends us a final, glittery
goodbye wave.
Until next time, she says.
Until next time.

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.