Filling depressions in the earth...

Personal Puddles

The rain has swirled away

But left a chain of puddles

On the Headlands trail.

They reflect the pewter

Of the scudding clouds;

Their weed-laced edges mimic

Portuguese Beach’s weaving of tossed logs,

A few deep treaded boots leave

Imprints on their border mud.

We call them “The Great Lakes”.

Pulling memory from our slanted,

Wooden, inkwelled desks

We name them:

The biggest, Superior,

Then Michigan, and . . .

And . . .

Mnemonic from Geography – h o m e s!

We christen Huron, Ontario,

And Erie.

Some smaller watery patches

We call the Finger Lakes:

Cayuga’s ponded waters, burnished blue.

There is a pristine string of lakes—

Five Lakes—in the Sierra.

We name another puddle Claire.

These pools all fill depressions

In the earth.

Each one exists in a particular,

A certain scale of size and time.

Those in Mid-America

Are a reminder

Of the glacial ice and geologic time.

The mountain lakes

Recall our younger selves.

The muddy puddles

Are our now,

Our evanescent, vaporizing future.

February 6, 2003