The Lake on Marpol Ridge
Location
The lake on Marpol Ridge
is an excuse.
It is the thought of accomplishment.
The whispers in the grass
and the feather-fluttered dirt
convince the creators
that if they just take a moment
to settle on the bench
and peer out at the pillow puffy horizon,
those droopy dogwoods,
that mirrored water,
something more than old leaves
and used-up dandelion wishes
will reflect back at them.
The lake is a magnet,
it is a lure.
Pulling the hopeless and searching to it’s lively edges
as if there are thousands of charged,
glittering minerals
gliding beneath the surface of each scum-layered
ripple.
The lake is a mother
of drifting ducks and gluttonous crows.
It’s a welcome mat to bare feet
and tennis shoes
pounding the uneven path
that circles runners round and round
going somewhere but nowhere.
The lake is a meeting ground
where neighbors and intruders
converge alike.
It’s a swelling of the sky
where soft, wet drops are sent to land in the
ridges of your eyelashes
and a sweet and satisfying taste melts on your tongue
when you tilt back your head.
The lake smells like honeysuckle
and algae-covered rocks,
warm and damp,
from a late-summer drizzle.
Tangles of old blackberry bushes
and a tricycle with a missing pedal
clutter the trodden earth
that leads to where you’re headed.
More than anything, though, the lake on Marpol Ridge
is an excuse.
It’s a hope
that your mind will take flight on the wings of those
leaving,
instead of setting you back adrift the dark, empty canals
where you arrived.