Author: triagepolitics

My girl’s a lake girl.

It’s cool.

My girl’s straw cowboy hat

tips forward

against the sun

as she lounges

on the sand bar.

My girl’s tangerine bikini

bobs like a

sleepy emergency alert

as she floats

on an air mattress.

My girl’s blonde pony tail bounces

while she cuts the engine

climbs to the bow

and drops anchor.

My girl’s pink yoga mat

hangs over her shoulder

as she walks

to the beach

to salute the sun.

My girl’s red bike

pedals to the marina

to take the the boat out for a cruise

and then pedals home again.

My girl’s blue eyes

scan the horizon as

she lifts the window shade

to check the wave report.

My girl’s sun-tanned shoulder

drops horizontal

as she pulls her waterski

with one arm

around a button-hook turn.

My girl’s a lake girl.

It’s cool.

You know the way

to the beach now.

Our walk turns from the road

towards the shoreline

and you respond,

delighted shriek!

and then,

bounce-bounce-bounce!

Your whole body

tries to shake free

of the towel I wrapped you in.

Leaning, grabbing, babbling giddily

in the direction of the blue waves

you nearly tip us both over.

So I set you down on your feet

and hold you by both hands

and you walk in tiny tumbling steps

to the waters edge.

Your spread toes grip the warm dry sand.

Your pink fingers grip my thumbs.

And when the waves start to lap

your toes,

delighted shriek!

and you charge forward.

When the water reaches your waist

I pick you up and hold you between my knees

while you wildly

kick-stomp-kick-stomp at the water.

You pause only

when a large wave splashes your face.

You sputter, eyes open wide

you look up at me, pause briefly.

Smile. Shiver. And then another

delighted shriek!

and undeterred, right back to

stomp-kick-stomp-kicking the water.

I remember learning to ski this way.

As your tiny boots shuffle just ahead of me.

A bright, still winter day. A sea of uneven lake snow. Trying to stay balanced on one foot while swinging the other foot straight forward just like mom and dad did.

I remember the spring of the blue plastic skis. The frustration when they would swerve at odd angles. The comfort of laying flat on my back, exhaling steam up into the infinite blue sky. The weight of my hot exhausted body pressing on the cold snow. The prospect of warm cocoa at the far-off horizon.

I remember learning to ski this way.

But I can’t imagine my game-face was as fierce as yours is at age two.

At 20 below zero

Gliding is almost impossible

on cross-country skis.

Jagged, dry snow crystals

scratch resiliently at the ski base.

It’s like striding

on styrofoam sand.

Wind sears skin.

Breath freezes eyelashes.

Air stings to inhale.

Anything that stands still freezes.

At 20 below zero

Suited up like an astronaut

– thick coat and hat and ski mask and goggles,

gloves and boots and boot covers and socks and socks and more socks –

venturing onto the lunar surface.

At 20 below zero

The 10 kilometer ski trail near our house

takes about twice as long

to complete in the slow-motion of deepest winter.

Trudging through this silent, still, empty, inclement,

beautiful, fantastic Minnesota.

Let’s stay

Where the front yard

Is the back yard

And the slamming screen-door

Makes all the windows shudder

Let’s stay

Let’s stay let’s never leave

This rickety card table

On the front porch

Just you, me and

Larry Ferlinghetti

Let’s stay when the

Heavy warm air sinks the night dew down

While the beachfire’s smoke curls at

the moon’s cool white crescent

Driftwood embers sputter and hiss

Let’s be here as

Two moths are doing a

Flit-Flit Flit tango duel with the porch light

Between them

Let’s stay to wake

In the morning with a

Cacophony of bird song outside the

The mildewed bedroom curtains

Billowing on a gentle morning breeze

Let’s stay

Where band-aided fingers

Grip cold ice water mason jar

Hands cup lily pad flowers

A sunburned forearm bends

To rests a drowsy head

under a tattered sun-brella

Let’s stay

Again and again and again

Let’s stay

Where the front yard

Is the back yard

And the slamming screen-door

Makes all the windows shudder

Let’s make this our life.

This is the long dark.

We are in it now.

Warm hearts chill

while the sun stays low.

Dawn becomes dusk.

Night steals the day.

Time passes, but slowly

when the light goes away.

This is the long dark.

The winter of discontent.

Warm hearth and bright feelings

thwart isolation and resentment.

Darkness seems to engulf all

but there is still a path here.

Greet despair with caring,

Lift up hatred with laughter.

This is the long dark.

Embrace enemies as friends

A black soul darkens all that it touches

but love wins in the end.

In a lopsided V

four Cygnus buccinators

flap northward.

The sun is high. The air is still.

Our thermometer reads -20 F.

Cruising at rooftop-level

their large white bodies undeterred

and their occasional honks resolute,

almost joyful.

Black feet swirl in

the ice and waves.

Two tiny pools

on an otherwise snowed-in lake.

Each with a pair of proud white

trumpeter swans

enjoying a morning swim

before the two last bits

of open water are gone.

Sand fish
drawn with a stick
by a neighborhood kid
at the public beach
on a gray muggy morning.

So grand in size
that its dorsal fin is being lapped at
by boat wakes,
its face is partly smudged off
by an out-of-bounds volley ball,
its tail appropriated to build a castle moat.

Sand fish’s
zig-zag scales
pock with rain drops
as the afternoon drizzles.

Sand fish
gradually washes away,
making room for
the next neighbor kid’s
masterpiece with a stick.

Snow moon crescent
peeks between nearly spent clouds.
The blizzard breaks
and pale stars gaze down on a new
white December world.