The Lake Camp, Unfinished Conversations -- Mary Westcott

I think of all the muddy bottoms of lakes
Like the one outside Troy, New York. I remember
My Grandmother’s camp there with linoleum
Floors and the musty smells of wicker
And rollaway beds. I remember getting tangled
In seaweed in that lake I learned to swim in,
the rowboat that took us far out and my fear
of the black snake on the path to my aunt’s
Cabin. I can taste the blackberries by the side
of the road we picked that pricked our fingers
For that tart fruit and black smudge on our hands
And tongue. I remember the pine smells, the acid
Taste of lemonade, bitter yet sweet.