by John Grey
It was here, this lake.
the largest in the county,
where he dived from the rock,
swam toward the far shore.
He had company enough,
all on the banks,
wondering would he make it,
or weary and turn back.
I can stand here for hours,
measure his progress
against how long I knew him,
and how deep these waters run.
He’s been hollowing out that surface
for the past twenty years,
without even a body,
no long limbs to plow him through.
All that muscle memory
may not remember him.
but I’m patient with the people I know,
and the distances they cover.
Nothing has changed
from the day he swam,
not the color of the hills,
nor the ripple at my feet.
The other shore’s gone nowhere.
He just hasn’t made it yet.
There’s still time. There’s still destiny.
I prefer his persistence to his death.
© 2023 John Grey All rights reserved.
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