The Canoe

On a night when
sounds drift for hours
upon the waters still
as sleep,
and the moon hovers over,
glowing upon it all,
the canoe waits so
beautifully determined,
at shores edge.

She is a patient vessel.
She is streamlined and light.
She glides easily, away.

I was sleeping when I
saw her. Encased in
sheets and sameness, resting
on favored comfort, I
saw her there, clearly,
waiting.
Sitting up, I wrote,
acknowledging her presence.

And I can't stop
loving her.
And I have no power
to un-hear
the lapping and licking
of her sides
as if each taste of her
knocks upon my heart,
"come!"
The stillness that surrounds
her cries,
"hurry!"

And the moon complicit
in illumination, steadily
declares the presence
of departure, still.