Sweet Sarabande

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I stood on the shore of that alpine lake
while a breeze descended over the ridge,
sweeping across that tranquil glassy green tarn
the waves lapped the shore in a sweet sarabande.

Closing my eyes I focused my senses
and listened, saw a little row boat with my father
in it, and heard once again water thumping
and beating, against the hull of the boat he was leading.

Smelling the Postum he poured from his thermos,
I tasted the sandwich he made – liverwurst and mustard
He pulled on the oars heading back to the shore,
as the weather had turned while the day waned.

I remembered the Studebaker, flat black and silver
with its split windshield; we loaded the boat and
headed for home the wipers beating after rain
began, rhythmic as the waves were thumping.

So where was I headed on this trek of mine?
In search of the music of memories,
the self I knew but in age forgot
only seen in the reflection of glassy green tarns.

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