walked out on stiff legs
twelve to fifteen feet away
from the weedy shore,
one board after another
reaching outward, drawing
your gaze across the unblinking
eye of the lake whose color
deepens further out, to sit
on this dock which seems
to want to hold you, even
rock you a little, to dangle
your feet, whiter in the green
cool water, to gaze down
into that silent world where
minnows eddy around
your toes, where sand
has agreed to be shaped
by ripples of water,
where reeds and water lilies
witness to you as that
which endures. To look out
on that lake, as birds dip low,
as quiet men in boats peer
into the depths, cast
their lines searching for
what is shadowy, elusive;
to lie back on gray, splintery
sun-warmed boards
in the silence of light—
is to allow that tight band
constricting your breath
to loosen, is to quench
your dire thirst for
the present. To sit
on such a dock is one
of the forgotten beatitudes—
blessed are the dock-sitters,
for they shall soon feel
shriven, their humor restored
and their pant legs
cool and damp.
Sharron Singleton
