Twenty years and we can’t keep
a clean house, can’t agree on how
to store dishes. What we do well
is walk. Among lakes.
Few boats, few homes
on the shore. Loons love it
as we do. Sometimes a clearing
opens so we look the lake
directly in its blue eyes. A heron
swoops overhead. Lapping water
rubs a bay’s edge. Spring
flowers give way to mulleins
and fireweeds. Our beards,
whiter than last year.
Kenneth Pobo has a chapbook forthcoming from Eastern Point Press called Placemats. He enjoys gardening, 60s music, and reading. This summer he read two Thomas Hardy novels—definitely worthwhile.
Categories: Poetry
Tags: Kenneth Pobo, poem, poetry, Sayner, Star Lake, Wisconsin
Melancholy Hyperbole 
I’ve always wanted to visit this corner of Wisconsin, and have never had the chance. Now I want to go even more. Lovely!