if the lake, as the man said, was tea-stained,
then I am a spoonful of honey, content to dissolve
in warm summer water. if the color, like he said,
is caused by the surrounding trees’ carbon decay,
then I am a ripening squash on a vine that emerges,
self-satisfied, from the steaming compost pile.
if I examine my skin beneath the surface,
my limbs caught for a moment in soft amber,
I become an insect, captured and serene in
golden-brown glow. meanwhile, the weight
of the woods steeps sepia into the shallow lake.
dear water—can I hold some of that for you?
the vines nip at my fingers, my heels
calluses of sap and expired pine needles.
I can carry the caterpillars, each chrysalis,
coreopsis, porcupine quills, their corpses.
I will grow heavy with forest, collect everything,
and when my feet begin to drag, I will find a spot
in the shade to sleep and wait to seep back into you.
Ellen K. Fee is an educator and writer from the Upper Midwest. Born in Wisconsin, Ellen graduated from the University of Minnesota and works with school-age youth in creative writing and publishing programs. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Reckoning, Reliquiae, West Trade Review, and stamped into the sidewalks of St. Paul. This fall, she will begin an MFA program at Northern Michigan University. Find her on social media @ellenkfee.
