(1972 – 1999)
The bottom of the canoe pushes
over the silt. Our feet make clapping
sounds through the water. We scuttle
inside the canoe with a sound like a blue
heron taking flight—our oars go down
into the muck, propelling us, bouncing
over the rippling in-tide.
We make some soft talk of future
shimmering towards the center.
The tree canopy orange ablaze
as we stow oars to go adrift.
Your head astern, mine snuggling bow
our feet casually intertwine.
In tableau, this image is how I think of you
eternally reclined in a drifting canoe
the molten lake sending ochre
shadows across your drowsy smile.
