A little prose poetry.
The Canoe
You hold the pine branch up for me and I slide under, ducking reality to waste afternoons of our lives on our beach. And as for our unfledged romance, the canoe has been here for all of it, snug in the shallow water, hidden in the bullfrog’s rushes. We are the only two who knew, who dared to take it out, back when you were growing your first beard. I was always at your side, wherever you traveled, hoping you would see me. The canoe brought us together, locked us together over the water. So many summer days spent on Schoodic Lake in our canoe, fishing, talking, dreaming. You always let me in first, I never had to push. You put your hand up for me and I took it. It was not a gesture of love. Not then. I would climb to the bow and you to the stern. We would leave, stroke away from the shore, and welcome our summer fantasies. Eager imaginations set aflame under the cloud-peppered skies. Even now, I can feel it. The spray of water on my face and arms as we paddle out to the deepest parts; the cool lake breeze fingering my hair. Hear the loons sing to each other, two soft, dulcet tones to soothe our ears. So far away from it all, out in the middle, we stayed and grew.