My mother calling out from the dead,
that I should stop paddling against the flow,
find a good sun hat for my head,
though with the snow falling
through the cracks in the shed,
I push on, find the cook fire burning.
Home, but as always, I did it solo,
across the neap waters of a night dream.
Carefully, I tie-down the canoe,
secure it to the rack of paper, pen,
my mother silent among the dead,
the door to her shed left open.