The Lake sonnet

I had every intention of searching through the sonnets, looking for examples of those defined words you gave us in class but (of course) I got distracted. I figure that's a good thing though, getting distracted, because I was so caught by a few sonnets in particular that I forgot all my aspirations of being the ideal intellectual. Instead, I opted to be the ideal "flashbacker". You see, Robert Pinsky's sonnet rather sparked a memory of mine. Well I suppose it was more of a half-memory half-dream type thing but whatever it is characterized as, I experienced it.

So maybe his sonnet was about some girl he was into, in which case I can't directly relate but of course I draw a parallel to caring about someone. That I understand. But that wasn't even the main part; maybe he's writing about some chick he's crushing on, maybe not, point being it reminded me of being at my grandparents' lake cabin. I remembered the scenery first. Those pine trees on the crest of the mountains, interspersed with other trees, ones whose names I never knew. Oak? Maple? Dogwood perhaps? Those I know. Japanese maple? Those are pretty. And I thought of the view from the lake, how peaceful everything looks from far away.

Then I remembered when I was younger, I used to lie on docks or decks and peek through the cracks. Even double-decker porches, I would always peek through to see what was hiding under it. I think I loved that I could spy on something so easily. It was like my little secret, that I was witnessing whatever happening (or lack there of) was occurring beneath me. And so he says the lake makes the same sounds under her cheeks, and I remembered the wonder and beauty that is in resting your cheek on a dock. So simple and even stupid but so wonderful because nothing changes, not the rippling water or the warm sun on your back or the stones rolling softly to shore.

He says, 'the voice of the lake, over and over' and it is a voice. A distinct pitch and consistency that makes one think, "Yes, the sounds of the lake. I'm sure of it." It makes me think, yes, that is the sound of my summer, so many summers past and so many to unfold. No one to nag me about anything beyond what is for lunch. A turkey sandwich? Or maybe chicken? Water or gatorade? The sound of my memories wrapped in the crest of each wave. And they break on shore, or lap against the dock and you just know, this is something incredible, something so infinitely difficult to capture. And somehow, Pinsky has captured this, if for no one else but me.