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Aug 142013
 

by Terry Minchow Proffitt

 

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.