Angela and Angelica,
I'm not a silica,
I'm not Amelia,
I'm more like hydrilla,
Moving with the water current,
I love my husband,
He is my fashion idol,
Is there too much to ask,
No, I rather be with him from dawn to dusk,
He is the boy I admire,
He is not what I desire,
But on what I require,
He is on the Esquire,
A requited love is what I desire.
Grass growth in the cove
where Larry's boat sat
years after Larry’s ash
whirled with rocks in space
daunts the pickerel:
silently galloping glut
challenges the channel.
Someday soon there may be
no seeing through it
to the bottom of things.
This soft encroachment,
a green disease born
of fertilized lawns
and hangers on
from other lakes brought
here by alien crafts
may arrest fluidity
with an embodiment
as solid as a moral
but as dead as Monday’s church.
Will we hear the hard lake
crack or will that be
Larry’s heart? Fossils
Gouged from cliff sides
and PA road cuts
taught the geologist
that all things will pass.
But the lover of Maine
rain-gauged statistics
to say, “Not so fast!
“Slow down! Not so fast.”
Take heart Larry, and I
will strive to join you:
your great-grandson
Parker loves the land
you left for all of us.
He is diving into things
and spying out hydrilla
with a water glass.
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