At Ease

This is not the river, but it is the only photo I have of a river:

At Ease
(with homage to Whitman)

Once I was naked
on a rocky river bank
sweet flesh on granite
tender curves
over rugged stone

Chorus: And I was at ease
and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

Once I was a stoic
baking in a summer sun
squinting at the world
and wondering why
why am I still
at water’s edge
while fine spokes of light
glance like shimmering gems
off the River Klickitat.

At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

Once you told me
you like to read the obituaries --
“Not ‘like’ as in it brings me pleasure
to read them,” you said,
happy to be alive and 50,
“but take this one, for example:
Only 23 years old, dead, gone…
makes you think, don’t you think?

At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

What if you only
had 23 years, or five
or just a 3-hour river run?”
Makes you think,
don’t you think,
about the choice
to flaunt away the day,
and just receive the summer sky.

At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

“Are you ready?” you ask.
Are you ready to pass through the rapids?
“You know, it’s okay to back out,” you say
to suspend here and everywhere,
but then I go nowhere
so I know it’s not okay
to stop short of the finish line
shy of sunset.
It’s not okay.
So I catch one last gaze
from your thirsty eyes
and dig my paddle
into the white water
drenching me
I follow you
into the V
into the splash
of canyon shadows
and fears
and mere seconds pass
before I am soaked and grinning
the moment splendors me
then spits us out
from the river’s tongue,
alive, ALIVE and

At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

by Wendy Thompson