My father moves the pirogue easily,
the paddle, like another limb.
His eyes are sharp here, sighting
owls in leaves I cannot see.
And his dog Beau used to dive from there,
going deep for bones.
Tendril-like, the bayou curves, becomes
thin, ferns brush the sides of the boat,
and moss hangs so low we
bow our heads to pass.
Lost, I am, in this gray green maze.
My father was here yesterday,
gliding, winding so gracefully.
He has never left this place.
from her book Return to Bayou Lacombe
Cinnamon Press, 2008
Used with permission of the poet.