Photo by Cary Bates on Unsplash
The canal watches my summers pass by.
Full view of the path I take to the beach,
where I saw a large snapping turtle hide,
or the picnic we shared pieces of peach.
I pick flowers to press and mail to friends.
I weave a basket from soft willow sticks,
stabbing them in the ground, forcing their bends.
Stresses on our friendship, I try to fix
by bringing you gifts, telling you stories.
Goslings walk up to my hands, bold, daring.
Run to see the falls, whitewater flurries.
Balance on a stone, drunk and uncaring.
Summers preserved in flowers, pressed in books.
Artifacts among rocks, seashells, fish hooks.
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