she skips the stone across the placid surface

still only two skips, she thinks

hadn’t he taught her better than that?

on that rocky beach behind his house

the ocean waves there in Maine rose so high

compared to the quiet sand-lapping waves of Vermont lakes

“pretend you’re throwing a small frisbee,

it’s all in the wrist”

she had bested him then

and he had ordered a redo

but now, without his arm gently guiding hers

each smooth, flat, perfect skipping-stone

landed with a plop

and sunk below the waters

leaving only two circles of ripples

sinking, dragging the memories,

of summer days,

with it