Lazy Song at Last

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.