The lake produces
paltry waves, but enough
to take the dock from
left to right,
front to back,
and it rattles against
the metal poles
that brace it to shore.
We drop
our grandfather's ashes
in remembrance,
a pittance
to whatever god
carved this crater,
filled it with water
and fish and mud.
Something
bubbles up from where
the packets sink -
an acknowledgement
perhaps, or
recognition of belonging,
desperation to return
to the surface.
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