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.