I have been on vacation. Enjoying family and friends, conversation and quiet. Birch and pine trees, and the cry of loons, and camp songs. I reached the top of the climbing wall I wasn’t strong enough for last year. I went out one afternoon, alone, in a kayak—set my eyes on an old friend of a landmark and did not stop paddling until I reached it, promising myself an easy return trip with the wind at my back.
Working the kayak
against waves, against wind,
baptized over and over
with each roll of water—
cross-rhythms of paddle and wave,
cotton-cloud and spray:
this is all,
amen.
The trip back is longer—
I cannot find my rhythm.
Over and over
my thumbs catch
between boat and oar.
Only the splash of water is familiar,
drops gleaming warm
on my arms, my legs.
