Driving home from the lake --
bare feet, dry and dusty, on the pedals
scratches from nettles and little branches
on my legs but it doesn’t matter,
because they are tanned.
Driving home from the lake --
my hair the unruly bunch of curls I missed
so long, jumping up and down before
my eyes but I don’t mind
because the wind is fair.
Driving home from the lake --
the village square lies hot and empty,
the silence reminds me of singing crickets
and sighing wheat fields,
of a yellow towel billowing through the air,
of the light that penetrates my eyelids.
I smell of reed, sweat, and seed,
the sun burns down on my left arm and thigh;
I love every inch of my body and life.
*Originally written in German, in 1997, titled Ketsch (A lake near Heidelberg)