—
Bored with a placid canal
they carried the canoe to faster water
and with hearts thumping, paddles flashing,
shoved off in the winter sun
to try the surging turbid river.
It bore them on
pitched them out, sucked them down,
indifferent to their shock and dismay
at the numbing icy coldness
of a snowmelt-swollen river
and the fear of death.
Alone with his terror and purpose
glimpsed others in their lonely struggles
made straight for the shiny hull
a slim hope, keel up
bobbing in the brown current.
But my God, no handles!
Only cold rows of rivets
smooth slick sides
to reflect a wet red beard,
blue trembling lips
and desperate eyes.
He struggled and lost
overwhelmed at last by the flood.
New-found strength and manhood
chilled, numbed, pulled under
to lie down with driftwood, old tires and clay.
Yet he lived awhile
and by his own gentle light,
Trusting his passion and outrage,
learning his hunger and need.
We saw ourselves in those eyes,
our struggles and longing,
our fear and our craving.
It’s in ourselves and each other we know him,
how much he wanted, how much he gave.
—
Photo: Getty Images
