We paddled near the past event,
the fallen maple
long in length, lying in lake water,
trunk severed and bent,
orange insides stripped and spilling,
but still blooming
baby green spring leaves.
Only the mountains lately witnessed
the ferocity. But today we were part
of our own occasion— you with your camera,
I with notebook and pen.
We longed to pull close, touch
the forsaken tree, but paused
before a spread-out thin pollen island
attached to the fallen tree
like a cobweb excessively anchored.
We could not be the knife
to cut the golden floating cover,
no solid weaving but the thinnest cloth
of unconnected dots, fresh-fallen, amply clustered
on the cold and quiet lake.
We paused beside this delicate tribute to spring
which some time soon
would surely wobble out of our shared time.
Published in “Cold Lake Anthology,” 2022