by Callan L., 18
And something comes from the breeze,
carrying with it the grains of sand,
no salt here,
the wind says
but the water is so blue,
blue — as if the sky itself
came down to dip its toes
in the water
for a little afternoon swim.
Sometimes I can’t tell where
the water ends and the sky begins —
it’s all the same. Can’t you see the ships?
— ghosts of schooners
steering along the banks of clouds
ever-changing, gray then white then gray again,
as if one morning has become three different days
always a threat of a storm.
I reach into the clear water;
winter remains, even in the light of pale sand.
The dunes threaten to take me
down to the mouth of the lake,
to show me how the water never ends.
A soft mother, pelt of sleeping
moss, hibernating lilies.
I want to visit the bears
and whisper my love to them.
Two sandhill cranes cross the street.
I watch their red-crested foreheads
as they sing to me.
Clusters of birch trees,
peeling bark. Sand is already
in my shoes.
I don’t complain.
The rocks on the beach
have been worn smooth by years
under the current. I rub my finger
over the surface
of a gray pebble. Maybe it was once
a boulder. Maybe it is visiting from Chicago.
I toss the rock back onto the beach.
Maybe it will make it back there someday.