Time collapsed—
or perhaps
I forced it.
Still a child on the lake.
Then my kids.
Then theirs.
Stay here.
Don’t take a photo
or make a note.
Just be—
splashing behind the boat,
screaming,
smiling wide.
Be here.
Why do I have to tell myself?
I close my eyes. I’m flying,
but queasy and seasick.
Be here.
Do I trust myself?
Am I sick or weak,
or contorted
by perception or prescription?
I’m behind the boat,
maybe ten.
They’ll soon be ten.
When am I?
Come back.
Let go.
This is good.
Okay.