On an Evening in Winter

In memory of my Grandpa Roger
 
I come here for the same reason some people visit graves.
You are the old men hunched over,
sitting in rows on five gallon buckets,
scrying into the lake’s gaping eyes.
I swim in my father’s work boots
and swing the ice auger carelessly back and forth
as we trudged to the “good spot.” Cold nips
at me like a million timid minnows.
Everything feels wrong here—walking on water.
Where beauty is quickly passing.
Where death and life are so close
that the cold chides my throat
whenever I speak louder than a whisper.