Issue Twenty-Four - Summer 2014


By Judy Bebelaar

In June fog, I am an empty boat,
weathered, one oar lost,
at the center of a fathomless lake.

On a warm July morning,
I am a blue canoe far from the sea—
dry-docked with a broken keel.

On a hot August evening,
I am a gate to the jetty,
open to the darkening sky
pierced with stars.

I wish for an oar,
paddles made of yellow cedar.
I wish for a sail.
I wish for the two of us
in the skiff on the lake,
your strong arms, my straw hat.

Copyright 2014 Bebelaar