A January walk,
I have to push my hands
deep into my pockets,
until I reach the sun
along the lake’s shore.
You think it should not
be called a beach.
I am less sure.
It lacks the kind of sand
I associate with the word.
But then it lacks the glamour
I attached to shore.
A word I read in books
from my farm house room,
young girls summering in Maine.
Reeds and marshes.
Fog – which I had
never seen.