Long PondSharon A. Foley
I don’t tremble down the hill
but thrill to the clutch of the rough log,
the rail of the stairway Dad has built
seven steps to the concrete
landing with the year 1954 carved in.
The scent of honeysuckle cues me:
watch for the horizon, the first
patch of lake, the pine, distant
on the other side.
Now the narrow beach
rough rocks on the breakwater
that brings the sand in, and beyond
a sailfish splashed by the speedboat
making waves that never reach
the shore. I revel in
the first time of treading water
my breast-stroke toward Dad,
relief as our fingertips touch.