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.
Copyright © Cory Howell | Year Posted 2014
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