Angie, my sister, and I went up to Tahoe. Angie suggested we go to “Hidden Beach.” I got so excited. Almost six years ago, I went with a friend up to a hidden beach where there was a huge tank-like thing in the water. I have never found my way back. I was sure she was talking about the same thing! As we hiked down, I realized it was not it. Still a lovely day with the sun, the beautiful lake, a good book. However, I would still love to find that beach again one day. I wrote this poem about it for one of my classes.
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Lake Tahoe
The Lake gets its official name from a misinterpretation of a
Native American word for “edge of the lake,”
but when I see the signs while driving over the mountains
toward its shores, I think of my east coast grandmother,
with pale New England skin
and how she would pronounce it with all her refinement:
“t’HO.”
He took me to a hidden beach at the Lake, a hike
from the main road. We trip on stones, and dead pine needles
sneak into my flip flops.
The trees clear and the deserted beach
is waiting for us, the sun bouncing off the water in a blinding
salutation.
A large tank sits on its shores, abandoned and rotting.
Entirely out of place.
So in a paradise where no war would dare enter,
the tank sits, a puzzling wart on the lake’s
otherwise perfect complexion.
He swims, teeth chattering from the
water. I hopscotch on stones toward the tank,
while he splashes my exposed legs and I try
to ignore the icy water.
I listen to the tank groaning with each quiet lake wave
that rushes over it, and I ask it how the two of us
ended up there, until I feel cold fingers wrap around
my ankles and I slip backwards toward the water
and into his shivering arms.
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