Uploaded on April 11, 2012
We return each year to the pines
to breathe the balsam
and if the wind is strong
the paper mill twenty miles beyond.
Each year, we check the road’s erosion,
the further house decay
(our own, of course, more frequently assessed).
Knowing what we know,
even knowing that our constant lake
in no way cares,
we seek the thickness
of its dark clear water
to buoy our spirits
thin with prescience and mortality.
—Elizabeth Hobbs
Poems from the Lake
04.11.2024: For years, I dreamed of having a lake house.