It was that even if we
never took that canoe ride
and when you did I shouted
to you across the lake about dinner or
something.
And I could hear your oar in the water, breaking
it and your face looking up as I called
to you and you didn’t need to tell me about
the oar
or the sky above you and how the
clouds moved fast or the lillie pad
in bloom because I saw it all
too.
And now, with my tea too
hot and the lint in my pocket soft and
I ball it up, it’s pink and I don’t know
why. I’d give it to you.
But can’t.
And soon,
again
there will be far less
explaining to do.
