Saturday, December 10, 2005

Lines (Susan)

That winter I was eight
You took me ice fishing,
Wrapped me in bright yellow rope and tied it to a tree on shore.
Don’t disappear on me, you said.

Grown now, I hold your hand
Remembering opaque lines are for liquid
Gray lines hold you securely to your bed
While you in dream imagine us
Back on the boat again.

The morning we went to see the osprey’s nest,
You pointed to a spider web
Soft and shimmering on the stern,
Marveled how it held in the wind
All the way across the lake.

The last thing we saw on shore
A child holding a frayed rope
Knotted to a maple branch.
Swinging out over the water and back,
His wet toes digging into the sky.

–Susan Schefflein
Draft ©2005 S. Schefflein All Rights Reserved

2 comments:

Susan said...

Yesterday I passed the reservoir where the ice fishermen inspired this poem one cold January day. I wanted to stop and take a picture, but because of the snow piled up along the road, there was no place to park. So I will have to be satisfied with seeing it in my mind's eye.

Anonymous said...

Susan,
the symmetry of the rope at beginning and end are lovely.

Deborah