My legs brought me to the beach by bike, with a milky, coffee-colored iced-coffee tucked into the water bottle holder which, when I thought about it, made me smile smugly. I knew this place and knew where I was going (if only literally.) I passed people, the obvious tourists-- the Quebecois speaking their hard, unromantic version of French, the family of 4 all wearing as close to the same shade of green as possible.

"On your left," I announced because, if they lived here, biked this path weekly for four summers; knew the stops, the public-but-private beach where they used to meet a friend and former lover and acted naturally when he said how magical their eyes were-- if they lived here, they would know to keep to the right to let others pass. And I always pass; I never know what is my rush.

That day, I was planning on going downtown for errands: getting an iced coffee and reading some Jane Eyre in the park that the townies called home, until the cops told them not to. But prior to my iced coffee I had my tires pumped and couldn't get the phrase "You'll go a lot faster now," which the bike mechanic told me, out of my head. So I just left and headed to the bike path and went fast. When I approached my first possible sit-and-read beach stop, I kept going. And 5 miles later locked my bike up and went down the long wooden staircase leading to the beach where I used to meet J. We weren't sleeping together at that point; I was an over-eager texter and then saw him walking home with another girl on a night we were supposed to hang out, so it was over. A month later, I convinced us both that I didn't hate him and we met at the beach. I was hesitant to give directions-- I discovered it on one of my bike path adventures, craving a change of scenery which is a thing that happens on a regular basis in this town. I went down at 5 pm and was one of three people there and wanted to keep it that way, as any other option would involve Coors Light and Frisbee. We lay down on my blanket watching the sun set across the lake and behind the pointed mountains and he rested his head on my stomach and I tried to think of something to say, but silence was okay between us-- it always had been. We met when I was Arts + Entertainment Editor for our college paper -- a position I look back at and question in the pre-music-blog-reading-illegal-downloading version of myself. J's pieces were always past deadline but they were well written and didn't need much editing. I started seeing him out at the bar where everyone knows your name, but would never talk to you, and one night after some $3 pitchers of PBR he mentioned an old typewriter he bought but was now broken.

"Maybe I can fix it," I said, and we left the bar.

And at the same bar several years later I was saying goodbye to him and wishing him and his girlfriend of 1 year the best of luck as they joined the ranks of the brave and motivated who fled town for the throes of a city and some culture and anonymity.

"This town is so small," is a complaint often made but only grave enough for several who mean when they say they will leave. Others are in a constant state of "thinking about trying to leave, maybe. Someday..." and wonder if they've missed their chance and why would they leave if they have a job and the economy is bad and they're kinda sorta seeing this boy and do you even know how expensive rent is in Brooklyn?!

But the longer I wait for the time to be right to move, the more attached I get --though it sure feels detached!-- and my strings are being tied tighter and I'm holding onto them for fear of change and starting over somewhere else as a grown-up who will not use staring across a huge lake at the Adirondacks as a source of entertainment.

sunflower season

i had a dream that i cut
down your tall sunflower
at its base, where the stem
is thickest and meets
the roots that have grown so
strong this summer and can
now hold the weight of bright
heads with round brown faces
perfectly centered and the landing
stop of bees yellow furry with pollen.
i cut it with a garden tool,
somewhere between a scythe and a saw
and let it fall by my feet;
it bounced slightly, cradled by the foliage.

in my dream there were rings in the stem
like the ones that determine ages of trees.
but this stem just had rings for the past three months
one per day
which told the day's story.
it wasn't much of a story, which is how i like my summer days.
some cold beers and a sweaty tee shirt;
finding grains of sand in my bed, in my hair;
the sweet tang of fresh tomatoes that had dirtied
my fingers and made me smile.

i lost track of how many times i said
the tomatoes tasted like candy,
but i meant it.
i popped an orange one into my mouth,
no bigger than a quarter,
and held it there feeling the roughness,
taking pleasure in imperfections.
(doesn't calling something "perfect"
make it less so?)
i used my teeth to break the thin skin
which held taught inside it the bursting
of flavor and seed and a
sweet messy juice.
i couldn't stop, so i had
two more
while i sat under your sunflower
which, when cut,
would later remind me of this day.

Can't Stop the [Innate] Beat

Things set to music look like dance
The seagulls are folk dancing--
moving quick feet while
keeping head still
And reminding us of
constant rhythm.
And we are fluid
and we are liquid
and, when left to nature,
we are motion.
And it is only when
we encounter structure and solidity and self-consciousness
that we question our
singular
inherent movement.
And laws of physics beyond that book
and theories of life beyond religion
are best left unexplained
and always moving.

Remembering Now

I'm crossing the rocks where we once tried to make our way, once took long awkward steps to avoid towels and legs and Bud-on-ice.

And i tried to imagine when it was Then: my bare skin, arms out falling forward, staring at the bottom of the moody water; remembering months ago when only the falling snow dove in, and the gray and white geese, squawking, had all flown over head, pointing their Vs toward Connecticut, maybe, or did they go as far as Florida? Farther?

And I tried to remember back to Before Then and I can't remember what the slippery algae felt like under my feet, scrambling to get back up to the rock, making fungus jokes just to hear you laugh ("I would lichen this to a great day!").

And bundled up in a black hoodie Now, hair welcomingy touching my neck, I barely remember the smell of or skin all together, as we sat out on the lawn. Our skin was perpetually sticky with sweat and bug spray; tempted sometimes by that gruesome DEET to avoid scratching at our ankles in the sleepless night when the mosquitoes rested their round, red bellies.

And Now i can't imagine anything but Now: the quiet of the lake, void of its boats like a face without blemishes and I'm held to the present by the sloshing of the soft water onto the rocks and into every crevice.