Pontooning on White Bear Lake

I still feel the hum of those sun-soaked days, A steady thrum beneath bare feet, The boat’s heartbeat in time with ours, As we drifted, easy, across the lake’s glassy skin. The water licked our toes, cool and crisp, While the sun kissed our backs with a lazy warmth.

I hear the laughter, the clink of cans, Like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze, Friends calling over the purr of the engine's push, And the soft lapping of waves— Each ripple a whispered story, Told again and again with the rise of the wind.

The lake smelled of pine and sunblock, A blend of green and bright, Where earth met the sky with the tang of open water. And the air tasted fresh, pure, Like freedom served in gulps, cold and clear, Refreshing the soul as much as the skin.

I see us there still—floating, laughing, Faces burnished by sun and friendship, Eyes glinting like the lake, Reflecting something golden, eternal. And each touch, each hug, each warmth of the Wild feels soft as memory, Fingers trailing over time’s surface, Leaving ripples that never fade.

Those moments live, Anchored deep, A pontoon of time where senses blend, And we forever drift on the lake of our past. An eternal appreciation for the gift of choice, where friends share together small slivers of a glorious beat.