Winter has pursed its lips
and blown across the surface,
freezing waves in their wake.

A river with tides that has carried
fleet Viking ships and hulled-out tree trunk canoes
flows back and forth at the whim of the moon
long past the time man floats upon its surface.

I gaze west across its waters
and hush the whisper of unease;
having been born on the other shore,
I long for home.