Ways of Thinking

About reasons for a lake whipping into November as I plow and steer toward my eighty-first year.

About a gray boat taking waves aslant old wood bent and stretched for what washes up.

About a jukebox, and a girl washing a window or waiting, her eyes electric jolts of green.

About a boy smelling of trees, his arms full of the girl who inhales his red flannel shoulder.

About beauty being where you are, any shore. My boat glides now into shoals of indigo, beautiful.

Find your lake, immemorial.