the captain, from his deck chair, on the shore

this lake. it moves with several movements:

the non-directional ruff of waves
the soft aimless surface flow
the deep slow draining of the basin
          from my beach out to the Atlantic
and a ten thousand year upswelling of rock
          pressed down by ancient glaciers
          that imperceptibly empties
          the drinking-bowl of the continent.

it seems futile: my grandchildren
will not recognize this coast as i describe it.
i look down to write.
i look up and things have changed.

that wave. that rock. the shiver of distant rain.
a shrill brown plover, a swan. the details
always shift.
                         i could map for you
each stone, each stick, each cracked black shell,
could blue the world with ink.

futile.

every map is a memory,
a plea for permanence.

every poem is an anchor
dropped desperate from a boat
and dragging the stony sea floor
hoping to find purchase
to hook a crack,
                          to slow us down
before that deep slow draining
(here out to the ocean)
carries us beyond the familiar and loved
into the unknown.

so it seems i write today
from this chair on the beach
because i am afraid to die.

so it seems each smooth grey stone
sits waiting for the tide.

so it seems each purple martin wheels
desperate in flight:
catching at the wind
that keeps it aloft
suspended above the waves.