It’s a little wet, she said,
clambering through the reeds,
the plywood dock sunk
into mud, pond, pollen.
The cattails bobbing in the breeze,
their yellow dust on her fingers, and sheeting
on the still surface of the water.
Each year this spot becomes
less and less human,
despite the canoe and the chairs.
Even they nestle their way further
into the reeds and silt.
This place belongs ever more to
the ducks, the red-winged blackbirds,
the cattails, and the dragonflies
in their shining red and blue flashes.
Not that it ever really belonged to us.
Yes – carry me on waters. Carry us on-
until we find ourselves
surrendering this place,
back to itself.