High-Water Mark

Sept 20 2011

The high-water mark

lasted all summer and fall.

Where spring run-off

thick with pollen

stained the sheer granite wall,

plunging down

into deep black water.

The smooth round rocks

that bob in the shallows

like balding monks;

a fringe of hair

a vow of silence.

The line reminds me of a bathtub ring,

grey water

circling the drain,

sucking, slurping

gurgling down.

Winter

will scrub it clean.

Or break-up

scouring the rim with a crush of ice.

There are familiar markers all around

methodically tracking

the passage of time.

The line of shadow

that marches down the deck

like a daily measuring stick,

how quickly summer ends.

Pine cones, or what’s left of them,

in scattered piles

where squirrels furtively dined.

And leaves, of course.

Although here, it’s variations on yellow,

too far north

for the burnished oaks

flamboyant maples.

The tamaracks

I planted years ago

will drop their needles;

but first

turn a luminous orange-red.

Not evergreen

like the rest of the conifers;

but better for shedding snow

when it’s heavy, wet,

letting wind slip through.

Pliable, slender,

they poke up into the breeze

like moistened fingers

testing the air.

And all the while

the high-water mark

glares passively back at me.

As if I had shirked my basic chores,

leaving the tub to cool

a leaky stopper, badly plugged.

But we choose what’s important

and what can wait.

Next May

will be soon enough  —

spring break-up

the first warm day.

And the lake

returning to life;

full, again.