KAYAK

​

The word balances

back and forth

like the paddle.

 

And like the “y”

we wedge between

beginning and end.

 

Knuckle and arm

drive the blade,

slit the lake’s skin

 

a soft violence.

We skirt lily pads,

pollen, jittery nymphs.

 

Below an ancient

trout rises

as if from a dream

 

to swallow the hatch

or the reflected moon

on dark water

 

that floats the kayak

between two worlds.

We become the fish

 

finning to surface

just as our eyes

open the morning.