World’s end,
from a shore deserted of all life.
Rise up, sun, and warm what I see.
My lake, somewhere a hundred miles north,
my home no longer there.
Wood full of memories.
Steps with twilight longing.
Bushes of pussy willow
and the gravel drive.
This is what I see,
this is the candy foam of my youth,
my hands stroking the bark
of an apple tree.
Hands as smooth as ivory,
and ears that heard every secret
of the wind,
and a mouth that tasted the lake
in the air.
Senses fine tuned as a violin,
legs that could run,
back that could bend,
and the lovely people,
playing hide-and-seek.
Where are you, mother?
Where are you, father?
Where are you, brothers and sister,
and rain falling warm on the grass,
and bicycles spraying up water
from wheels of silver.
World’s end,
without a lighthouse near,
or harbor where boats can dock,
or walks by the water,
where you can stand,
and see the tirelessness of the lake,
and its wand of waves
never ceasing to come ashore,
and tell me,
Ted, nothing is gone.
Sandusky surrounds the bay,
and the boats go out and pull in their dreams.
The theater of old films is there,
and the old houses,
and the white one where you lived,
by the pier
where your father’s boat is moored,
and the world endures.