Port Stanley, ON

When I was young at the lake,
I dashed up to the water, sharp twigs and stones burying into my feet as I stepped.
I sat just by the edge, the frigid liquid threatening to soak me.
I skipped into the lake, my brother holding my shaking hand as we went.

When I was young at the lake,
I stroked the damp wood, cool as it rotted,
I felt the icy water splash at my legs,
I heard the sharp cry of the feather-gray gulls.

When I was young at the lake,
I felt nervous, at the thought of the piercing cold water, I was always calm after I got used to it.
I felt excited, eager, as my brother raced me to the lake.

At the beach,
I always found comfort, and I always found joy. I remember games with my brother and the elaborate worlds we made by the lake and the secrets that were just ours.