LOCUST LAKE
We were in our green canoe on a chilly lake;you wore a plaid shirt: orange, green, brown,
autumn on your arms. My skin was warm
in the sun; above us, the tips of the sugar maples
were beginning to burn, the start of the great
conflagration. We wanted the day to never
end; we knew in our bones that summer
was over. Already it was time for asters,
goldenrod, Joe-Pye weed. The sky ripened
above us, hard and blue. Beneath our paddles,
ripples spread in diminishing circles, barely
perceptible when they reached the rocky shore.
Barbara Crooker
