Uploaded on October 25, 2011
I sit here on my porch
wearing flannel shirt and woolen socks,
watching the wind whip the water,
watching it tear leaves and pine needles
from the trees.
I want to dive into the lake just one more time,
I feel the warmth and the goldenness of this October sun.
But the dock has been hauled in
and my last swim felt like needles on my skin.
The scarlet trees cry ‘winter, fool,
gold of autumn soon will leave white birches bare.’
—Elizabeth Hobbs
Poems from the Lake
10.25.2023: I’ve never liked swimming in a cold lake, and I have even less desire to do so now. Cold plunges? No, thank you.