Duck Poem #3

My father knew Ward Cleaver.

     In real life Beaver’s father vacationed at a resort for which my father           printed shiny,
     four-color advertising, and at which we went to dine family style with          clients and resort guests.

My mother wore cotton print resort dresses. Her favorite, an aqua, had a geometric line and dot pattern

     but when I would squint my eyes
     it was the August afternoon lake my sister slowly swam across
     while my mother and I accompanied her slowly in the rowboat;
     the Palamino waves my mother and I rode
     home from a canoe picnic to the island
     when the wind made us hug the sand-bright shore.

My father is still in his white office shirt, now open at the collar. After the family dinner
at Great Grandma’s he and I will walk

     beyond the plaid cottage grounds,
     across the sunny field to drink a cup of cool, clear
     wisdom from the same Lady-of-the-Lake cedar spring
     from which his grandfather had taught him, over years,
     to drink.