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How long would I last
lying, cheek to wood,
on the lake's dock,
sun relentless and hot on my back,
my face pillowed into the folded towel,
which will leave terry-cloth pocks on my cheeks.
How long before I would begin to fret:
I'm hot. I'm getting sunburned (I can feel it).
The dock is hard.
I have things to do--
a meal to prepare,
lists to make.
Water laps beneath me,
and the wood brilliantly conducts these murmurings
to my ear cushioned on the towel.
The water mesmerized me once,
but would it still?
Have I so filled my self with activity
that what once sufficed
will now not take me away from my endless thinking?
Alas, this question is without answer.
I have no dock, no lapping lake.
To test the question I will have to seek elsewhere--
listening to the scent of lilacs, for example.
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