In the Canoe

Set blade,

pull water,

open heart.

In each breath

I find my self.

Paddles up, paddles ready, set, pull.

All together — timing, timing, timing.

I miss a stroke, and then another.

Too long, too short, too fast, too slow.

Set, pull, open — again, again.

Feel your feet, knees,

hips, abs, lats, arms.

Chest open, eyes ahead,

and breathe,

don’t forget

to breathe.

I am one of six in an outrigger canoe.

Blood pumps, mind races.

A roar in my head, though the boat is silent.

A rush in the body, though the canoe is calm.

I huff and puff, lungs against wind,

against current, against body and mind.

Morning light,

clouds to the west,

easy water turns to waves,

white caps coming. And yet,

and yet, there’s a quiet on

this river I can almost reach.

Reach, the caller commands

and my body grows longer.

I am all arms. The mind cuts

chatter to three small words:

reach and pull

reach and pull.

This river is my metaphor and making.

Physically exhausted,

mentally full, emotionally spent.

And yet — like writing and love —

I keep trying.

As if repetition is mastery.

As if desire makes skill.

The canoe is now confessional:

The body is willing but wanting.

Too old, too slow.

Able but not athletic.

Still, here I am,

pulling, reaching,

tired and trying.

This body

holds secrets

in every breath.

* * *

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