Boating on the Yerres

after Gustave Caillebotte

Men lift the sky

in a shower of veiled hues, wooden paddles

dipping deep in the liquid silk of the Yerres.

With rippled strokes, they guide their skiffs,

slip silently between rows of poplars.

A woman watches from the sanatorium, sees

trees shimmy in the skimmed wakes.

The green sheen of reeds sweeps her mind clean

of all but the light, the men and the charmeuse

skein of river becoming shadows in the sun-drunk air.

Closing her eyes, she drinks the breeze, the stillness

of this country afternoon, the lap of water on hull

as soothing as a lullaby.

Shifts of color, luminosity flicker behind her eyelids.

In the cradle of her boat, she is alive to each vibration,

braided into the melody of river music.

Portrait of Tennessee Walking Horse

I study your large head, your mane silvered

with age. In your warm brown eyes, time

dissolves as I reach back beyond the accident,

and you become breath of sun-scorched hay,

nuzzle against my arm, lick of tongue on my hand.

You lip apple wedges from my palm, and I listen

to the chew and crunch. I meet your steady gaze

on my face like a small thank you between us.

Standing now before you, in silence,

the canter of hooves across the vast and varied

terrain fills my body with animal energy, the power

you hold within, the gentleness it belies.

Your coat carries the arc and blur of summer,

the scent of clover wafts around you,

and I am returned to earthly abundance

re-learning all that was lost in the fall.

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