rewrite

Lake Michigan, Tuesday

Perhaps you marked a moment’s

indecision yesterday, say between

two-thirty and two forty-five

dissolved in a flush of heat

like stepping in from a frozen porch

amber eye of a wood stove bathing

old oak gold under its gaze, pining

for the good old days, a mercy really

when you stop to look at them

in less flattering light, the kind that lit

the wind lashed beach north of Grand Haven

in a feeble gloom I tried to dispel

hands held high above the furious waves

eyes closed in benediction to you encased

in amber on the opposite shore.