We lumber through swells, the lake's
limber antelope, canvas wassailing
night breeze. Reeds close-porched in shadow
provide a scant comfort to mergansers
redoubted from evening.

Your laughter breeds lightness. I feel
the temptation, tether long hopes
to your hands. Breech-stow sagged pennants,
repair towards the cabin, triage days
wastrelled on land.

Then lapped fingers dance
once again on the transom,
a rainbeat expression in pink.

I'll guide the old boat to her slip
come the morning and pluck
some fresh whelks at low tide.


� 2004 by Edward J. O'Brien