Celia Lawren
Leaf Boats on Panther Creek
Walking a gentle incline above the water’s rush,
I hear my friend emitting muted mumbles
in regular intervals like a tugboat or foghorn.
Perhaps it’s his way of coping with chronic disease,
soft whispers of comfort against assaults on his body,
skin cancer surfacing, receding, resurfacing elsewhere
despite chemo pills, like the stubborn rhododendron
embedded in the seams of rocks we pass.
The creek, swollen with five days of stormy weather,
races to keep up with its volume. In comparison,
our gaits are slow, conversation spare, as our senses
overtake us, tuned to the soft crunch of detritus,
the unique smell of air cleaned by forest trees.
Against the backdrop of the creek’s swish,
a downpour of golden leaves all around us,
we’re mesmerized by leaf boats surfing the creek swell.
They dip into small eddies, rise again to speed off,
swift and resolute like miniature lifeboats.
We’re thinking the same thing: a lifeboat to save him
from the cancer. The creek takes no notice of us
as the leaf boats hurry by. Some travel free and clear;
others get caught against the rocks.
Other work by Celia Lawren