Montario Point

Prompt for: May 1, 2016 (Ren)
Subject or Theme: Describe a day or night at home or away at your favorite place.
Word(s) to Include: expression, ripple (or any derivatives of these words)
Forbidden Word(s): favorite, home, house, island, vacation (or any derivatives, compound or hyphenations of these words)
Additional Parameters: Minimum 24 lines, non-rhyming, descriptive poetry (use all of your senses)
Remember, do not use forbidden words ANYWHERE, including title or the brief description.



Montario Point

Varicolored tents patchwork the yard, stitched together
with beach towels hung to dry on lines. Dryer sheet scents replaced
with musty-damp after three days of continual use. No one cares
for the sun will bake them, like so many bakery treats, on the sand tomorrow.
Now, as day winds down, as fireflies flit and glow, we gather at water's edge.

Aunts and cousins, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, in and out laws:
fully four generations, stand at the eastern-most edge of Lake Ontario.
Winds calm at this time, caught between day and dusk and downright night,
barely a ripple, the waters lap at the rocks: I've always called it
'The Lullaby of the Lake,' for after the sun has set, the little ones are put to tent.

After the sun has set. Serious business, the sunsets here. As in fishermen
knowing the times of tidal warp and woof, here, we know when the sun will dip
beyond the horizon, when the arc begins its downward spiral into our inland sea.
Someone , with one eye peeled water-wards, starts the evening fire.
Sparks spiral up and up, meeting, mixing with mating fireflies:
green and orange glowing dance. Last year's fallen apple tree: no apples this fall,
but sweet Applewood in the fire scents the evening air. Final surge of folks
pulled away from the last of the dishes, armed with cups of fresh coffee or
glasses of Aunt Chris' elderberry wine, we commune together
beginning the nightly ritual of 'Stars Coming.'

Voices quiet to murmurs floating out to greet returning kayak as it arrows home.
Always, just enough clouds to be tinted as they frame the sinking sun.
Golden oranges and pinks deepen to mauves morphing to mulberry.
Above, stars wink in indigo canvas and someone, always,
tells the story of pointed-out constellation. Lakeside bedtime story.

Now as last crescent of gold slips into the lake, the evening breeze begins
wisping to us the scent of other lives, fires, of 'Off' put on, of sunburn cream,
of burned 'mellowmarshes' and shampooed heads of the little ones nodding
in half-sleep as they valiantly try to stay awake. Not wanting to miss anything,
but a day swimming and running the beach taking its toll.

Fireside now, dogs curled, warming flip-flopped feet. Playlist song
softly spins a country tune of dared rapids and choosing to dance a tide.
A tide of emotions wash over me, but then my husband takes my hand
and I know he feels it too. This, these moments are so worth it. Cost
of twelve-hour drive out yesterday and back tomorrow, balanced here, now.
Reunion of family, communion of souls, renewal of friendships.
Stories we all know by heart are swopped yet again, still able to bring
laughter-tears and good-natured jibes. That family feeling picking right up
where it left off last year as we scattered back across the country.
One is missing, two have been added: the year between measured.

Crescent moon rises, a smile from heaven.
Song changes to Satchmo crooning about our 'Wonderful World.'
My free hand reaches for Aunt Chris' and she reaches beyond to
one of the cousins. Soon we are all linked by hands and memories,
by love and blood: simple expression touching us all.