rudder in the water

She called me rudderless

as she languished

on the banks

of the muddy stream

I was trying to navigate,

as if she could see

below the surface

where truth lay open

like a filleted fish,

she, tossing her head

in the spring breeze

hair flying

legs unmoving

rudder steady and still.

She was right,

of course,

about the rudderless-ness

of my time in the water

as the water carried me

from bank to bank

pools to falls,

ducking willow branches

trailing in the water

and stray fishing-lines

surely not intended

for me.

I thrust my right hand

into the water,

fingers tight together

fashioning a rudder

of my own,

my course straightening,

water behind me gone

the flow ahead yet to

disclose.