by Kirsten Dierking

The first few days we have
slow mornings out on the lake,
long afternoons to walk in the woods,
evenings of leisurely innings of baseball
unwinding over the radio.

But time moves faster as the days
of the week accumulate behind us.
Friday passes in a flash of ease,
only now and again it seems the waves
washing on shore have reached an ending.

At dinner I say, tomorrow morning
it’s back to real life, you sweep your hand
through the last of the day and say
there’s nothing unreal about this.

But the scent of pine is faint on my skin,
as if I had been a wilderness once,
as we merge into traffic, as the lake
falls farther away behind us.


s e a r c h
f a c e b o o k
i n s t a g r a m