With all the trepidation
of a toe-tip scanning the
May lake,
with a faint smile
blowing by my face
on the breeze,
with the anger of yesterday's thunder
and the passivity of
today's fog,
with the purity of dawn
after spring rain
washes the air,
I pack my umbrella,
tie a sweater over my hips,
clumsily untie the ropes
knotted in place for years,
and row
as though my life depends on it
into the sparkling sun-path.
Barbara E. Prater, May 2000
