Once More to the Lake

Once More to the Lake

—after E.B. White

The water is peaceful this Sunday morning, 
only the occasional squawk of seagull overhead 
or the boat's motor starting up in the direction

of the marina or the splash of a net cast by a father
and son on distant dock. For a moment, I am back
in my classroom, hoping to catch my students

in the net of E.B. White's story about a father 
revisiting the lake of his childhood. I want them 
to feel the warm days of summer, hear the drums

of evening thunderstorms at lake's cabin, taste
the bottled Moxie at the nearby country store. I pray
they experience the tug of the line when the boy snags

a bass, visualize the dried blood on the dock
from yesterday's catch. I want them to understand 
how past and present will one day merge,

that life's cycle bringing birth and parenting and aging
brings death, too. But wait. For now, I want them 
to dive in. When the waters are inviting and warm. 

When the waves' song is soothing and slight.
I want them to soak up the sun. Before the turn
of the light. Before September.