My barque is small.

Still, the river gets under me

and buoys me up,

plowing the ground, unearths me.

Like silt, I slip away in the rush,

hang suspended in light.  Why

am I always surprised

by the river’s sudden surrender

to sky?

How wide and still

as breath–

On either side, the distant shores

 their small trees.

I rise, push a long pole

to the bottom.

Ripple upon ripple

 — a blue harvest —


Why do I say

everything is in my mind? 

This lake,

sky at my feet,

the rims of green.

This pole

pushing me through it.