On the Lake
Once this small island was a hilltop, trees
looking down to where a creek found the river.
A buoy marks the underwater creek bank
where the depth goes from twenty to forty feet.
But we’re tied snug against this island
taking advantage of shelter from the wind.
There will be bigger fish in the deeper water,
but we’ll feed the little ones here where its warm.
Some of these islands hold remains of farms,
scattered stone foundation from house, smokehouse,
or barn. In Spring there might be jonquils.
Or where the cemetery was, a rose gone wild.
Right here, though, no one’s past reproaches us.
Not the fish, not the goldfinch, or the crows.