Passings

Whisperings

without a sound a life can pass
a moment unheard
like a tree that falls in a forest
is it gone if no one was there to hear?
does it lie hidden in the scrub brush until
someone trips over it and says,
“Damn, a tree fell.”
but her children were there
to recognize her passing and pass it on
a kaleidoscope of feelings
so full I could not breathe
a generous son offers,
“You are welcome to come over and
choose something that belonged to her
but no matter how you turn the cylinder
tip it, tilt it, shake it,
the patterns simply can not
be predicted
or repeated
or recognized in the familiar
and you run
as far as you can go
until the flood subsides
without a sound
a life passed
I need nothing to remind me
that I already miss her.


Youth

40 years and 2 days ago
I purchased an Old Town fiberglass canoe
17 feet with a flat bottom
perfect for fishing
from a distance looked like white birch bark
niggled fantasies to mind
as I took a college course to learn
how to dump it over
right it while treading water
climb back in
hit the rapids paddling fast
hard port
whitewater means obstacles
survival techniques worth 3 credits
and 40 years and two days worth of
pure pleasure
memories of night fishing beneath Green’s Cliff
White Mountains on Church Pond
portaged it in for a summer
hid it beneath fir boughs
my father and I
good memories
because we didn’t talk
just enjoyed the stars that filled the sky
the white nosed granddaddy beaver
that followed along beside us
and never seemed to mind
no tail slapping warnings
and a lone bald eagle whirled down from
the cliffs and floated on the air currents
air you could deep breathe
silence that filled your pores
fish measured in pounds and feet
memories that never had to be
measured in time or words
moments I passed on to Meg’s boys
Sam, Marc, and Max
on Chororua Lake mirrored
with the mountain named for a chief
three in the canoe and me
with Meg on shore
fishing for anything that might bite
year after year
they grew as did our adventures
like Marc catching a three and a half pound
small mouth bass on a worm
not three feet from the canoe
and it dove under
the boys leaning toward its escape
and I leaning as hard to the opposite side
as possible to prevent a flip
we pulled it in
and Marc sat on it so we could make
the shore to Meg without our excitement
resulting in a cold mountain water bath
two years the canoe rested on the back
of my little camp as if in waiting for the
next installment
40 years and two days and I watched
my canoe leaves in a borrowed pickup
with two kids hoping their dad would
stop to fish somewhere between my camp
and their home to begin the memories
waiting for them
a gift to them
a gift to me to see their barely restrained
anticipation
it was time to let some things stay
and others go.