Raymond A. Foss Poems

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The paddle and I
Out in the middle of
The churning lake.
The wind pushed the bow
Turning me around.
I pitched into the wind,
Back erect, leaning
Against the blow,
Making for shore.

The paddle, 24 years old,
Fit comfortably in my palm
Familiar pressure, angle and form
The varnish worn and cracked.
The shaft and handle darkened
With my sweat, dirt, and age.
The blade narrow for river work
As it was on the Allagash
Split and chipped
From years of use.
A treasured momento
Of a wonderful trip.

The waves broke and pitched.
The canoe moved
Like a cork on the water.
Paddle left, back paddle right.
The splash of the water
As I fought to gain control.
Progress slow but real
Cutting along the edge of shore
Easy to measure
Foot by foot.
Away from shore again
Buffeted by the air once more.

An hour from home
Muscles taut
And cramped
Torso twisted
Fighting the storm
As I contort
To steer the canoe.

Written 7/8/2000, edited 7/9/2000

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