Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Poem: Low Water Mark

Steve Piragis went out paddling into the early evening yesterday. His picture reflected some of the most subtle afternoon light we've seen so far this year.  It is hard to believe that November is already upon us.  This poem came to mind.  Enjoy.

Low Water Mark

Rising from dark water;
spires climb,
the green trees of years
gone by.  Now like 
bannerless flag posts
rooted in the wetland soil.
Sentinels of the lake
silent, watching.

Reaching through gray.
blue and pink toward
the retreating sun.
Arms entreating dead
grasses to join in the dance.

Canoe bow splits
reflection’s perfection.
Abandoned wood duck
house rocking slowly
to the rhythm of the 
dead wind.

Redwing blackbird
calls from the cattails.
Beaver tail slaps to 
the North.  Pileated beak
strikes home and keeps
the beat, hidden in the 
dark, jagged line of pines.

The colors deepen.  No
one is home, or,
are they?  Paddle pushes
us into the night.

© Timothy James Stouffer, 11/04/2015
All Rights Reserved

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