Green Canoe

JPTolson · 11-23-2021, 10:09 AM

A friend of mine sent me this poem from today's edition (11/23/21) of The Writer's Almanac, narrated by Garrison Keillor. The poem comes at about three minutes into the program. Maybe TCT should have a trip like this to a lake without motorboats and no dam to worry about going over where we all lay in the bottom of our boats and see where the wind and currents take us! It would sure be a different kind of trip. Enjoy and Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Green Canoe
by Jeffrey Harrison

I don't often get the chance any longer
to go out alone in the green canoe
and, lying in the bottom of the boat,
just drift where the breeze takes me,
down to the other end of the lake
or into some cove without my knowing
because I can't see anything over
the gunwales but sky as I lie there,
feeling the ribs of the boat as my own,
this floating pod with a body inside it ...

also a mind, that drifts among clouds
and the sounds that carry over water—
a flutter of birdsong, a screen door
slamming shut—as well as the usual stuff
that clutters it, but slowed down, opened up,
like the fluff of milkweed tugged
from its husk and floating over the lake,
to be mistaken for mayflies at dusk
by feeding trout, or be carried away
to a place where the seeds might sprout.

11-23-2021, 10:09 AM	#1
JPTolson Senior Member Join Date: Apr 2009 Location: Salem, Ohio Posts: 902 Nominated 0 Times in 0 Posts TOTW/F/M Award(s): 0	Green Canoe A friend of mine sent me this poem from today's edition (11/23/21) of The Writer's Almanac, narrated by Garrison Keillor. The poem comes at about three minutes into the program. Maybe TCT should have a trip like this to a lake without motorboats and no dam to worry about going over where we all lay in the bottom of our boats and see where the wind and currents take us! It would sure be a different kind of trip. Enjoy and Happy Thanksgiving to all! Green Canoe by Jeffrey Harrison I don't often get the chance any longer to go out alone in the green canoe and, lying in the bottom of the boat, just drift where the breeze takes me, down to the other end of the lake or into some cove without my knowing because I can't see anything over the gunwales but sky as I lie there, feeling the ribs of the boat as my own, this floating pod with a body inside it ... also a mind, that drifts among clouds and the sounds that carry over water— a flutter of birdsong, a screen door slamming shut—as well as the usual stuff that clutters it, but slowed down, opened up, like the fluff of milkweed tugged from its husk and floating over the lake, to be mistaken for mayflies at dusk by feeding trout, or be carried away to a place where the seeds might sprout. Last edited by JPTolson; 11-23-2021 at 12:37 PM.