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Karen Olson

The House I Almost Bought at Kentucky Lake

The House I Almost Bought at Kentucky Lake

Nestled in the hilltop trees
the house opens to lake and sky.
The concrete porch hides from the shoreline.
A stairway of weather drops into the water.
Treads rot and heave out of joint every winter.

Last November, Blackie’s boat capsized and sank.
Retrieval of a boat fifteen feet under is labor.
          You’ll need a winch and a crew.
Plus, it wasn’t worth much--tar patched hull, bent sail.
          He left it to the lake.

Some love to swim in the blue cove
where the water is warmer than a good bath.
No need to dally on the shoreline.
Dive in and stroke into the silk
          left by the morning rain.

Others choose to fly.
They close their eyes and breathe flight
          into the hickory trees.
Unsteady at first, they stretch their arms, lift into the wind
and fly above the water for a bird’s view.

        Then, swift back to ponder this fleeting fancy--
straightening their hair and rumpled clothes,
          they open their book, they shiver.

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Karen Olson is an emerging poet and professor of early education at a community college in St. Louis.

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