Right the rowboat; the torpid hoptoad gloats 

   unseen, her hair combed only not to be 

in plain sight, pondside, by the boathouse porch.

   Uncombed, as the old grey mare goes boneless,

snapping tortoise drifts the yellow calm, clouds

   awkwardness in untimely silence. Self

shallows; the quorum of the upturned palms,  

   appointed in manifold sun blindness,

lies frogless. Hard droppings dot, dock and yard

   conjoined, in the could-be-worse nursing home;

flock’s short one goose left to toddle and squawk.

   These glasses magnify grandma’s eyes, stack

faded life vests in the haunted boathouse,  

   reflections on the iris. These vignettes

float, save me from one and only visit.