Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

Every breath might be your last
Look not forward, look not past
Seize the moment hold it fast.

Leave your calendar
for a week without time
on a land marked by eras.

Paddling into the West Wind 
the Old Woman breaths deeply
despite our tobacco tokens
waves breaking over our bows
as the swell slowly builds
yet our sturdy kayaks flit
across the swirling water like
water striders on a mill pond.

Casting the Dog River’s mouth
a silver steelhead seizes my lure
to dance atop the water and
add to tomorrow’s breakfast.

Waking up to a sky full of stars
waves murmuring on the beach
dark waters reaching to infinity.

The wind drops to a zephyr
at our back as the Old Woman
sleeps softly and we glide
across sun speckled water
and reluctantly return to
time marked by hours.



Memories of a week's kayaking on Lake Superior's North Shore.

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