The hill loops its steep S-curve
down to the disheveled lake
aglow in algae yet still fishy
enough for loons to sing
their minor seventh.
The hot north day means
horseflies swooping, then
swooped by swallows,
the social ladder.
The stone retaining wall
stops the road from
unraveling. I sit so long
rooted to shade that
a turtle lays its claw
foot on my leg
to find out what I am.
I will have to go back
to that harsh house,
while the stones, loons,
fishermen, and flies
stay and let
the water decide.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 2.
Laurinda Lind lives in New York’s North Country, close to Canada. Some of her poems are in Atlanta Review, New American Writing, Paterson Literary Review, and Spillway. She is a Keats-Shelley Prize winner and a finalist in several competitions, most recently the Poetry Super Highway Poetry Prize.
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