The dock is in.
My sandals on,
Under spring sun, I sit.
This dock is memory full.
At seven or so,
I learn to ski with dad as motor.
I'm sent out.
He runs in toward shore.
Between us a rope.
I stand on water, glide, learn.
Summer after summer,
I think suits are proper attire.
In the garden,
In the house,
On the dock or deck,
In the boat.
All those years,
A suit is my uniform.
Skiing, swimming.
Seaweed fights.
Spearing catfish.
Stupid things.
Tubing, laughing.
Boating, lounging.
I soak up the sun.
Lake sunrises.
Late evening boat rides.
Memories abound.
Hurry, sun, warm the water.
The dock awaits and promises a new season of wet, sun kissed days.
Unwrapping the gift of my parents' dock and all the screws I stripped making it......
