Along the edge of my consciousness, there is an eddy line.
Whenever I cross this mark,
The current hits the bow, turning me downstream.
Water spills off the paddle in steady trickles as the canoe shoots forward.
I am a quiet cut on the surface,
Moving through a fog interrupted by moss trailing over cypress that pass by
And are gone.
For Mickey Landry, who taught Outdoor Ed when I was in high school.
Writing, copyright 1987 and 2016, Ann Cavitt Fisher, all rights reserved. The first version of this poem was typed on the 1967 electric Smith Corona . . . that my Mom typed my Dad’s thesis on when I was two :-). It was the typewriter I had in college . . . and oh, god, does it make me appreciate my Mac.
Swamp image is from Pixabay.
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Categories: New Orleans