I dream of flying.
Lifting off the edge of the bluff
and rising quickly
toward the fat, lazy clouds
hovering over the great, grey lake.
Circling the nearby harbor
where scattered sailboats bob,
I swoop and dive
like the swallows nearby,
but seek out more familiar forms
hidden back among the trees,
just far enough
from the crumbling bluff
to put Dad’s mind at ease.
To the glowing kitchen window
and the figure of Mom
in her pink, plaid apron.
Ever regal.
Ever busy
in her blue and yellow kitchen.
I hover there,
in the cool lake air,
listening to the happy clinks and clanks
of pots and plates.
And try to imagine what’s cooking
by what’s wafting through the windows.
Until a strong breeze
lifts the aroma
and me
back over the lake.
Past the sunken, old pier
where giant carp spawn
year after year.
Past the rocky harbor walls
standing hard against the waves.
Until the house
and the cottage
and the beach
disappear,
and I begin to really soar
over endless stretches
of dark and deep.
Unhappy to find my bed
and solid ground
beneath me when I wake.
Dog-eared Stories 