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Fireplace and Wine
Canoe Poems for Winter
The Route We Once Traced
The snowmobiles have found the
route
Canoe and I once traced
The first one up my lonesome lake
Has peacefulness erased
The ice-hut fellows drink their beer
Where I met summer loon
And lay dead fish upon the waves
Once silver with the moon
To this canoeist, January
Is fireplace and wine
For all that snow is bound for rivers
That will in spring be mine
February Canoeist
“Great day for canoeing”,
they mock
The snow scudding past the factory windows and
The thermometer into double negatives
But I’ve canoed more rivers in February than
I ever got to in summer.
While the company’s paying me by the hour
While others poke at this week’s deadlines
I’m lining a canoe down Otter Creek, in my mind
I’m drifting downwind on Sparkler Lake
I’m two hours to campsite
Three hours to campfire
Only a thin hull from the depths
Only a glass daydream from the truth
The Long December Night
The lake’s now closed
with crystal
And topped with drifting snow
The loon long gone, the only life
Swims cold, and far below
Where I beached my red canoe
The snow fills tracks of fox
Where I cooked fish on open fire
Only winter walks
The portage trail’s deserted
A trace of white on white
Nothing moves but falling snow
The long December night
Maps. February.
In February the maps come out
Are pinned upon the floor
And I with wine and quiet talk
Trace lines of lakes once more
The world tonight is cold and white
The map stays green and blue
And every lake’s a route I take
In thought, with my canoe
This winter night canoes are light
The days forever shine
And a tent unfolds by waterfalls
On every thin blue line
The Christmas List
What I’d like for
Christmas gifts
I’m not that tough to please
I’ve always got a lengthy list
So set your mind at ease
Some days, always downwind
Out past known and known
A lake beyond a range of hills
Where we can be alone
A campsite by the water’s edge
Firewood plenty and dry
A loon to watch us paddle in
A couple of fish to fry
A full moon to... oh dear!
Why the heavy sigh?
I really need... some warmer gloves
And... of course another tie
It’s Dark at Second Portage
It’s dark at second
portage, now
The snow increasing deep
As evening comes, a stand of birch
Seems carved in winter sleep
A porcupine plows across the path
Intent on changing trees
Two grosbeaks fluff their feathers
To December’s mortal breeze
A rabbit pauses by the rock
Where I rested months ago
And listens for the owl’s wings
Above the sound of snow
It’s dark at second portage, now
The forest claimed by night
The place I knew is now defined
By shades of black, on white
16 poems. 7 little illustrations.
For canoers who need beer, pizza, memories, and hope..
Text file available free. Email me at everson@golden.net.