Out on the water
there are no arbors, no orchards
floating like a miracle in the waves.
There are no such things as water pecans,
lake peaches or apple fish sweet as, well,
as apples crisp as a Macintosh's white pulp.
What the water fives froth like boiling lace;
wake behind boats, jet skis knee-boarders,
relief the sun begrudges even as it burns
away evening cool, mosquito lairs soon
a warm soup perfect as a silk bed
for what makes sense to do in a silk
bed, sleep and the gymnastics of love.
What the lake gives back after it steals
color from clouds and night, won't fit
in a pocket or poem, so I'll stop now,
and let you imagine a boat, the lake, sky
and you somewhere in there, singing about trees.