His first smile is a canoe.
He has no idea.
The smell of his neck is a long journey.

He makes me think of lilypads.
I am thoroughly familiar with his gunwales.
Help me.

The paddle drips in his lap.
My hands callous.
We do not have a rhythm.

Pelicans plunge.
He is anxious about whitewater.
Waves slap the waterline.

He is careless about rocks.
We can’t help but float backwards.
Paddle already!

The river ripples viridian.
He can’t see past the thwart.
I will not change places. 

© Tori Grant Welhouse