Confluence

The river enters my son    

becomes his hair, runs long

behind his ears, over shoulders

enters his sweat, wet raft scent of hugs

lingers on my face and arms

drifts in rooms when he departs

becomes the wisdom of his limbs

his thoughts a paddle turned a fraction

slim-edged deflection of a current that can kill

broad blade, he tunes himself against it

leans into it, slides past deep shadows

sucking underneath giant boulders

hones each edge of his heart, river muscle

a living rudder, minutely responsive

the boat only a boat but more

his joy, that brave buoyance

carries us past ancient reversals, smokers

sleepers, undercuts, widow makers

that stoic face water-cut in canyon wall

a story, a foil to his countenance

eyes sparkling, scouting the line

for Sam