This old lake house has seen better days:
spiders in the corners, woolen must lingering
in the closet, lichen spotted stones
leading from the back door down to the grove
of spear-like pines and peeling birch.
From the back porch, a view of the lake:
white caps and scalloped troughs this morning —
last night a front moved through,
the sound of rain and wind over
the metronome of the ceiling fan.
I do not know which rivers feed it,
from which source comes its tattered blue,
but I know the turmoil of the lake’s face
feeds something in me, the darkest part
that despairs, that no longer expects to outlive
the current condition. The wooden dock rises
and drops with the wake. It moans
as you’d expect a wounded animal to moan.
Not even the hope clouds burn off by noon.