From this frost-rimed bank
meager fare make multiple
rings on the calm face of Storm Creek Lake,
at first light purity lit.
The psalmist would have
my soul wait for you, Lord,
more than those who wait for the morning,
but at ten I can’t hardly wait,
am just learning to pray.
One day I might say
that the Christ-heart swells
from the green sediment down low
and strikes fall’s mirrored brilliance,
then too soon is gone like all things too
deep, calm, and new.
But for now my lot is Sunday School-plain, as if
each surfacing were a timid footstep taken
by the ghost of Saint Peter wobbling
the riled waves to Jesus, that sinking saint
still trying. Daddy lugs
and clamps his 3.5 hp Evinrude
outboard to the rental boat’s stern
without a word. I push off
as he pulls and pulls and then
pulls again the cord till we sputter to
and pick up speed to a crisp hurtling
across that pares away smaller still
our weight beneath the high blue sky.
A thin wake trails our boat’s veering
as we bear toward the silent
reach of a cove waiting
where somebody earlier
behind the bait shop counter
said that somebody said
they’re apt to hit shiners,
but he’d be a fool to guarantee it.