Melakwa Lake

06.27.06

Bracken ferns beckon,

like a gnarled-knuckled finger,

bent,

unfurling, uncurling.

Come.

Come, my pretty.

Come, my darling,

the wizened ones call.

Little bread crumbs can’t be seen

on this snowy trail.

Come.

Get lost in these woods.

Linger by the lake.

Bake in the sun.