Perspective

by Cheryl Reitan

At first, I am tethered to the dock.
The unfinished letter, the undone dishes,
the unanswered phone calls
stretch the thick rope.

The deck hands call out.
The captain’s speech booms,
rumbling on the deck like
falling unread books.

Up the ship ladder, I start to say
“Wait. Go back,” when
the hill shrinks and the known
becomes unworldly.

A church-castle watches;
A parkway rims the bowl.
Reflected on the surface
Real and unreal entwine.

I squint as we glide into sea and sky.
With the humming of the engine
and the beating of the wake,
my worries unwind.

I'm sailing. No one needs me now
except my new friends, the gulls,
unsophisticated goofs, who
bob in unbroken calm.

Beach Walk

by Helen Rivers

Wandering a caramel corn
pebbled beach I long
for sand.
Hot sand, coarse sand,
Any kind of sand!
Brown sugar sand
Sweetens my winter
Toes humbled by a
many kernaled caramel
corn beach.
Peace at last!

I'm a Kid Again!

by Helen Rivers

I'm a kid again!
Barefoot I land on the
sand.
Ouch! Hot, hot, HOT!
My feet are falling off,
I can't stand it!
Water's edge so far
away.
I'm airborne now
with a desparate plunge
to sanity.
Lovely water at last!
Thank you water!

A Point of Lake Superior

by Amy Jo Swing

We stumbled on uneven rocks to reach
our section of the point. Most tourists love

the smooth rocks close by the pullout. Not us.
We like to work for our peace. Rockhopping

on the balls of our sandals, we traverse
waterlogged driftwood, lake-tumbled glass shards

(pocketed awkwardly), a dead seagull,
sunheated, half eaten by foxes, flies.

Once we get to the point, the rocks spread out
forming sloping shelves to frigid water.

Cedar trees in ragged lines shield our backs
from the road. A northwest wind whips the cold

out to sea (our inland sea). Cirrus clouds
stay lit in places where they have thinned.

Spray occasionally hits the rocks or feet.
“Come sit with me,” you propose, and I do.

The ice of '07

by Gail Trowbridge

All night, we shivered under our threadbare blanket of snow, tugging at its ragged dirty edges. Down the dark hillside, Lake Superior tossed and moaned, heaved and groaned; then the whining wind died and the stone cold lake dropped into a deep sleep.

We awoke to “one for the records” — cold and wind had locked thick, clear ice tight into the harbor, polished by Zamboni winds. Along the shore, ice chunks the size of sofas lay where the wind and waves had tossed them the night before, hurrying to clear this perfect sheet of ice.

One by one, we came down to the edge of the mirror. The glass was framed by a froth of ice, tinted a tender, fairy tale turquoise. We stepped carefully onto the ice, then more boldly, until up and down the shore, we were like so many black dots spilling out onto its slippery surface. Under our feet lay a mosaic of perfectly polished pastel stones; a web of feathery cloudy cracks; and things we had lost under the waves, a shoe, an ice shack, a ship.

The lake lay under its thick translucent shield, caught in frozen spell that imprisoned roiling, wild personality. We sharpened our skates, and glided forever. We played hockey, chasing down pucks that skidded the length of five rinks. We sledded, slid on boots, skidded out on the seat of our snow pants while ice boats clattered across the expanse. Like doomed Arctic explorers, we walked toward the horizon (or at least Wisconsin), only to scurry back when the lake’s frigid breath began to seep through our boots and into our bones.

One morning, the winds rose and shifted, and it all ended. The ghostly fissures that had seemed so permanent, darkened. The sleeping body of water under the ice began to stir, a surly, groaning awakening. The lake broke through its shield; then drowned the ice until its familiar dark, moving water covered its depths again.