so I park by the rocky slope of
Mormon Island Dam rising into
the afternoon and start the climb,
first along the service road that
slopes to the top for a wide-angle
view of the lake, then veers uphill
onto the path of spring aborning.

I want the oaks just beginning to leaf out—
the big one up there with boulders
beneath where I can sit above this
expansive body of water on which
we used to ski behind a turquoise boat—

Father driving, Mother keeping track
of a daughter at the end of the rope—
a spot where I can look across the lake
to the pale ribbon of shore fronting
more green hills and oaks studding
the land that shaped my sister and me.

This great basin before me—nearly
emptied by drought in recent years
to a trickle of the original river running
through it—is nearly full.

Snowmelt will soon arrive in torrents,
and though we perpetually have
too much or too little water,
for now it is good to sit on granite
high upslope under trees, washed
by an eloquent spring breeze
on the last day of March,

grateful for this solo outing,

attentive to conversing birds,
breathing with trees and rocks,
grasses and lake, listening for
the poem approaching,

not really alone at all.

***

Here’s to National Poetry Month! Poet on, people!