The time was too short this year--just three days--and I was only half there, rather strangely, even with the pleasure of my first flying leap, first rushing cold moonlit skinny-dip, first dawn by the glow of the still full moon... The water was calm for days, winds were light and the sunshine burned away some of the chill of the cold summer, though it all passed too quickly. Glad to have more family with us this year, and for the company of my brother.
Learned a couple things this time which I suppose I probably already knew, but are worth recounting here if only for my own benefit:
1) always bring more water
2) everyone going should know where we're headed before we set out
3) there's no good reason not to
To speak of this body of water
is to call on the depths of the heart.
Crashing waves into rippling stillness,
the surface changes in moments, what's below
such cold it takes breath, courage
at the edge of ice.
To know this body of water is to reach
out of time, where nothing meets the sky
but the cry of a loon,
who slips away easily,
reappearing nowhere we can see.
There are no shells on these shores.
There is stone worn by water, water by stone.
There are lichens here older than your great great
and tadpoles in tiny pools
fed drop by drop
of fallen rain.
Each makes its way.
others will take this body of water and leave
a space unfilled, deeper than imagination.
Only ghosts could be so thirsty,
Today, it is full.
We leap from rocky heights
and flap our arms on the way down,
kick a little, take some in the nose
and then go again,
a little higher next time.
I could not have guessed
that angelic babe I held
ten years ago would stand behind me, now
egging me to jump,
Tonight, we dive naked underneath
the warmth of the round moon,
the last of this summer
to shine on this body of water.
Be so always,
full of dark,
bathed in light.