Deep North

By Emma Campbell

 

Emerge from the black water

Drenched with smells of walleye and weeds

Smooth bubbles glide nasty leech seekers to grill crisp in my mouth

Pine seeps off into the dusk until smells of light take over

Leaf piles pucker up to the drooping sunflowers

The hay rolls line up on small hills for a nap against the sunset

Honey drizzled squash on plates of peeled birch

My own circle of the north woods beaming

Kayak past deserted cabins, and row hard

While lily pads sponge murk become less bewitching

Sway sweet peach tree lips, away goes the lightning storm

Winter corn is mown in the aftermath

 

 

Emma has managed to include all the magical things we love about Long Lake. I wish for every child to have a week on a lake. No smooth blue bottom pool, but a few weeds, clamshells and rocks to contend with and to feel a small fish nibble their toes.

But now the lake had a frozen arc in the bay and the geese had come to rest and squawk before flying south. They were sitting on the thin ice or paddling near by and would suddenly take off as if called away on an emergency.

We heard them as we walked down the ice-covered road to see the new roof on our cabin. We had thought a great deal about the color of the shingle and suddenly it didn’t matter. It was there. This is a big change for us. Nothing at the farm has really changed in years, perhaps the occasional light bulb. We have loved and loathed this fact. The house has been there waiting frozen solid all winter until we appear in summer and clean, dust, swim, cook, bike, walk and dance. Then as quickly as it begins, summer ends, we read a poem, pull the shades, and the house waits again.

Now the farmhouse has a new neighbor. We spread our wings and leave the nest and yet rejoice in the comfort this spot provides.