January Swim
I was familiar with the forested northland. The crew
numbering its work took a chance going outside.
Faint smoke and a gentle breeze, a circle of bright
eyes peering through the grey morning. It was a
matter of getting out to learn the forest; it was a
matter of being within reach of what we needed
to know our hearts were good. “But worse clouds
will come,” you said, “see that you bring him home.”
If the wind was in our favor, a bread box entered
the picture too. The gesture of the canoe pulled into
your plaited skirt. To love or dream, but never both.
Our thinking tucked benumbed hands into a showing
of impressive power. We were down in that forest
working on the page together, faces revealed in the sun,
faces unspeakably pure.
Note: This poem was composed using words and phrases found in John Muir’s essay “The Discovery of Glacier Bay.”
Innumerable Stumble 