Lazy Song at Last
Write this on the breezes stirring
in this quiet, nameless spot where
woodland rock descends to wetlands.
Take the ambitions I’ve no use for
anymore, sail them on a maple key
down this trickle emptying the bog.
With luck they’ll find the river I
hear faintly beyond the trees, maybe
reach Lake Huron before freeze-up.
But even if they stop at the next
windless inlet, snagged on some chance
tangle of debris, it’s enough to watch
as they drift silently away, helped
by these straying breaths of pine.