Ode to Clark’s Lake
By William Leutz
Again my waking eyes settle on
the water stretching out before me,
a sheet of hammered silver shining in
the fallen light of the second moon of May.
Random patterns of the morning break
coruscate its shifting surface as
they have done since first the creeping ice
carved the shallow hollow of this spring-fed lake.
One hundred years ago, comfortable
in their wicker rocking chairs on the long
shaded porch of the Eagle Point Hotel,
my grandparents also shared this sight.
One hundred years earlier the Potawatomi
in their light, white, birch canoes,
and the wandering, coureur-de-bois engaging
in the fading fur trade, knew it’s light.
In the bitter social banter that serves
for public discourse of the present day,
I wonder who will find this peace
one hundred years from now?