It’s a little wet, she said,
clambering through the reeds.
The plywood dock
has sunk
into mud, pond, pollen.
The cattails bob in the breeze,
their yellow dust
on her fingers
and gliding in sheets
on the still surface
of the water.

Even the canoe
and the plastic chairs
nestle their way further
into the reeds and silt.

Each year this place becomes
less and less human,
as the ducks, the red-winged blackbirds,
the cattails, and the dragonflies–
in their shining red and blue flashes–
are its constant keepers.

Carry on, waters.
Until we find ourselves
untraceable,
silent

in our
surrendering of this place,
back to itself.