Cedar Lake Poem (Inspired by Anya Spring 2000)

I stare into your depths and only see my reflection, 

dark and distorted by ripples, waves and swirls. 

Sometimes, when I look past myself, I notice the sky. 

But you, dark pool, hide depths I can only imagine. 

As a child, sitting upon floating docks, I feared 

water moccassins, giant snapping turtles, leaches, and the dark unknown. 

I imagined Jason exploding from your depths 

dragging me below the surface 

into your icy abyss 

where light becomes lost. 

Downwards, 

where 40 foot seagrass reaches upwards towards the surface 

dreaming of touching the sun. 

Is that my destination; 

my limbs entangled in your long hair, 

my thrashing, my lungs gasping 

breaths won't come, can't come.

I remember those days. 

Summer. 

British swim instructors with bushy blonde hair

unwaxed bikini lines. 

10am instructionals under overcast skies 

before the sun had calmed and warmed the air 

those token 6 inches of surface water 

heated ever so slightly

If only...

I could glide upon those 6 inches

But my body always pulled me into the Lake's icy grasp

chilling me fearing the stoppage of breath. 

My eyes pleading for empathy 

Gray woman with heart of stone. 

Gray water. Gray sky. 

Pale eyebrows over gray eyes, 

my skin knobby, tightening and graying with chill. 

She never saw me beyond the lack of motion in my limbs, 

the wind drowning out the clattering of my teeth.

Cedar Lake. 

I sit in the sun upon the grass watching children splash in the shallows or 

I sit upon the docks, side of enclosure. 

I listen to the children's laughter

the sound of bellie flops, cannon balls, back flips 

Memories of myself resurfacing under the docks, 

momentary thrill of disorientation

Your waterworld turning upside down and backwards

I hear hands clapping water, splashing water into faces, 

the periodic call out of numbers in the buddy system. 

I stare out towards your distant shores of swamp grass, sand, rocks. 
An occasional sunfish glides across my vision 

boys and girls learning the art of sailing. 

I remember journeys in rowboats across your surface

adventures into the woods 

nights of camping and bonfires; 

tales of Cropsy who lived in the shack on your western shore, 

who stole stray children and ate them for dinner. 

We visited his shack occasionally for the thrill of danger 

we found broken beer bottles and bullet holes. 

We found new fantasies surfacing with every new discovery. 

We rushed away before the icy hand of his ghost grasped our small shoulders

Before we were discovered missing

and resumed fishing for bass and pickerel.

Today 

you appear in the eyes of a woman. 

In my reflection in her eyes. 

I smell the cedars. 

I see the thunderheads gathering south and west. 

I see the divets created by raindrops falling upon your surface.     


I wonder.