Woodins River
by denny bastian 2012
Below the narrow wood bridge that
smells of malodorous tar and creosote
beside the contradictory knoll
of sweet-scented purple lupines,
the little river chatters joyously
over the mossy rocks and shallows
that conceal the sneaky trout; ever
on its way to greet the proximate sea.
Sitting upon a large rock
where the river meets the cove waters
I place a cheap artists canvass upon
my summers lap to start my first acrylic.
I begin to put spirit to brush,
brush to paint, paint to canvass,
trying to mimic the foam and frothing
wavelets where fresh meets salt,
the swaying kelp atop the low tide,
the grand spruce surrounding, and
the little red and white boathouse atop
the weathered planks of Hubley's wharf.
My heart sings, my restless spirit calms
nonetheless my eyes tear in recognition
that my hand is entirely incapable
of describing what my eyes understand.
