“Lessons from Wisconsin,” New Era, Sept. 2001, 26
We’re sitting on the beach
flailing at mosquitoes
and watching the sunset.
The smell of campfire lingers on
leaving liquid footprints as it tiptoes
across the lake.
Grandpa sits in his faded lawn chair,
blue argyle socks falling down around
His hands rest in his lap, wrinkled and
he hasn’t fished in 18 years.
A water bug skirts across the lake.
“Ewww, gross,” I squeak.
Grandpa looks at me and puts his finger
to his lips.
He points to the water,
“Look, he’s dancing …”
I stare at the tiny body, leaping and
bounding in the evening wake.
“We’re like that,” Grandpa says, staring
into the water,
“except too many people see the bug,
and not the dancer.”