—Cunard Lake, mid-June
There’s the floating, yes,
and the sunsparked water,
the heron who lifts her long gray self
out of the reeds easy as breathing.
There’s the lake, here,
you say, just being all the time.
We sip coffee, listen to the mew
of the sapsucker.
Once, fishing on a rickety dock,
a woman I did not know walked up
the slanted boards and told me
(I guess as an alternative way of greeting)
that sunglint on water triggers a wave
of endorphins in our brains.
Large green dragonflies land
on your shoulder, your legs.
You watch their abdomens pump air,
ask what their compound eyes see.
Wonder how anyone would know.
Before you knew me, you said
you would have screamed,
swatted them away.
The endorphin-story woman stared
a moment at the water. Walked away.
I kept fishing happily catching nothing.
Yes, there’s the floating, the drifting
in our canoe. The sunreflecting water.
There’s a kingbird, you say.
The other day
I let go of perfection.
Not that I ever really
had it, damn eel, damn
desire to have it all.
I let go and an ease
came like a sigh
like dropping on
to a down pillow
after a long day.
I gave up my desire for blight-
less tomatoes, a weed-free lawn.
Kicked flawless out of my vocabulary,
don’t care if I ever finish my life
list of North American birds.
I let go—a
bird in a nest
something will come.
Steve Tomasko thinks about the dust mites that live under the couch and the eyebrow mites that live on all of us. He muses about the 5,000 species of bacteria that live in our mouths. Someone has to. He’s been published here and occasionally there. Steve lives in Middleton with his wife, Jeanie (also a poet), three cats and half an empty nest.