Coming Back

I don’t like the way I left.
Gradually I have faced it,
the way rocks near a dock post
turn out of the sand
after eight or nine Winters,
feeling what it’s like to take the risk,
wanting to taste air.

In May the lake will go down;
everything will let go, let go
ahh, not the shuddery nap of rabbits,
but the relaxing of dainty guts
in turtles and green snakes,
of delicate gills
furling and unfurling in calm flame.