To Be Thirteen

I found a surfboard once, Along the banks of the Cherokee Lake. A dirty, stained, half-broken plank. My cousin and I drifted it out To see if it could still keep its head up. I waded among the leaves, In a shallow bay where our Campsite smoked from the morning's fire. Treading water, holding tight, I examined My vessel -- I pulled myself on board. The breeze hit my dripping back, Sending chills to my toes. I stood, stumbled, and lifted my Hands; crucified by the mid-morning air. Eyes closed, I tasted the water on my lips. I found myself among the reeds and cold Waters of a lake. Thirteen and Shivering.