Butternut Lake by Kenneth Pobo

Butternut Lake

Spring: pink ladyslippers,

ghosts of trilliums,

small jacks-in-the-pulpit.

A creek widens.

When the storm comes,

our short-sleeved shirts

soak through. Even still,

we’re not crawling under

an electric fence of fear

and worry. I can’t swim,

yet the lake looks like I should

live in it

as minnows do.

The sun returns, climbs

a gold ladder.

We follow it up,

stop by a stand

of birches.

Kenneth Pobo

Kenneth Pobo has a new book forthcoming from Assure Press called Uneven Steven. He has a chapbook forthcoming from Recto Y Verso Editions called Opening.

Twitter @KenPobo

About this poem

The poem connects with a trail I’ve walked many times in Wisconsin.  It’s a place of peace. We rarely see others on it.