On the Seasons

Today it is beautiful out and I can't conscience spending more than a little time in front of a computer screen, so I leave you with a poem in celebration of winter finally buggering off.

August, six o’clock

We used to go in there when it was halfway down to dark

To find our wooden paddles standing crossed against the door

Put up our palms and hook them by the ladder’s highest rung

And kick our barefoot questions into trailings on the floor

Our hands laid flat to carousel the kayak’s yellow arc

On brackish sands and flotsam of a thick swamp-magic shore

Let emptiness speak mutters in its own elusive tongue

Dove into moveless mirrors for a thousand days and more