A Canoe Going Nowhere
John Grey
Between us, reflections shatter
on lily blooms, in fluttered light,
we are almost the same body
as we row toward the gleam,
the gloss on stone and ripple.
This is the August life.
It holds us in place.
Gold across the surface.
Kingfishers on the overhanging boughs.
On my cheek, a leaf falls.
I pretend it’s a fingertip.
Water plays out as we expect,
exhaling gently
like breath from the canoe’s bow.
So quiet here, no sour traffic,
just the end of summer,
buzz of dragonflies,
sprinkle of breeze,
you’re light brown and unwinding
while I’m the human hush.
