Paddling Through Wheat Fields

Paddling through Wheat fields

After the flood of 1957
I found up in the pasture one spring
day a new canoe, with everything perfect
as it lay upright, swaying gently
in the mild breeze. I was twelve.

I loved all its mahogany finish, the
intricate curves, the exotic logo
etched on its bow; I sat in it quietly
among wheat stalks and paddled away
down the river of my mind. I was twelve.

Awakened, back nearer to myself, I heard
a pickup, just driving up, and I jolted upright
from my journey. It had a bed rack, for boats-
I helped the man load his canoe. He lovingly caressed it,
gave me five dollars, and sped off.

I wept. I was twelve.