Naked in a canoe, you emerge
blossoming like tawdry April
in a town that’s turned its back
to the river. The span is iron
trestle, riveted to carry freight,
all green and rust. Magnolia, dogwood
strike out improbably against the wet
and dark forgotten churning melt.
Your skin, winter fair, neat with rain
your hands rooted on the paddle
your breasts are little foxes
among the bramble. You
are wearing a Teutonic helmet,
straight out of opera. The river
braids, your hair flows. The prow
of your craft tips up in the current
as you feather the water, left and right.
What is it I see, with eyes of mist,
eyes of rippling crosscurrents? Is it
you? Look at the river, coursing below,
the water tumbles, your fierce command.
And flowers bloom on the dirty earth.
Poet Andrew Varnon lives in Greenfield with his wife Lynette and two children. He is a former chair holder of the Poet’s Seat Poetry Contest and an occasional contributor to The Recorder opinion page. He works at Frontier Regional School.