If I Were a Poet

On my last night
I would go down to the lake
and, kneeling there, touch the
reflection of the moon.
I would inhale deeply
the smells of mud and summer’s end
and think of all the times I’ve walked
this far and stopped.
And then I would exhale,
hesitantly at first as I
step out on the water, then
faster and faster until I am running toward the moon
with outstretched arms, laughing,
forgetting to breathe
but no longer needing to.