Out of the Stone

The stone, with sharp crust
biting my hands.
Lifting it made me
think of you.

Gratitude
for taking me canoeing
on the Black River,
the day after dad's funeral.

I cut my knee
and blood spilled freely.
We kept paddling downstream,
had to walk back to the truck
(or you did).

I stayed and swam
under the bridge.
October warm days,
water out of the rock.