Yellow Oar

The padlock is clipped. The gate is swung open.
Gravel recast on the salt marsh path.
Trees removed and snow falls in the sea.
Along the edge of water and ground, stuck in mud,
a yellow object juts out from the cordgrass and common reeds.
My boots plod through trackless ground.
A yellow plastic paddle, cast on shore by a storm.
I take you with me. You mean much to me immediately.
Your story surrounds you in the sand.
First, you are a weapon for beating, a cane to aid my
restless walking in the cold wind of a barren landscape.
You swing at my side. I wield you like a sword to be stuck
inside me. You become a crutch for a feeble set of wandering feet.
But, you are no weapon the further I walk.
You cannot hurt me or pierce me.
You are what you are.
I do not need you to help me forward.
You are a yellow oar to be dipped in cold hard water.
You take my boat from shore to shore.
You task me on my journey.
Your image I share with others, we canoe the cold waters of the channel
in winter. Our ship is docked on rocky ground right now.
I await a launch from long remembered walks around this lagoon,
walks where we shared the blazing glory of a yellow sun,
watched the image of the earth ablaze in fiery orange,
as the lights of the world set across the ocean of time.
The candle of day still has color in the sky.
The jets of night still carry travelers to distant places in cloudy airs.
The boat still floats along the tidal currents flowing in and out to sea.
My yellow oar, in my cold hand, seems alive and chipped and strong.
It shows the sign of high tides and rough seas.
It knows the pull of earth and tides and heavens.
Somehow it is here with me for eternity.
A symbol found on coastland, a plastic castaway in a cove.
I carry it home with me, cupping the object in my hand,
like holding a child's hand as you cross distant foreign lands.
The yellow oar paddles away from broken shells, muddy waters,
shore rocks, and tall seagrasses.
It still has the power to steer a course out into darkened waters,
where lights dim, and yet the sun flickers cast signs to shore,
and the glow provides calm for the restlessness of my path.
I hold the yellow oar in my palms to prevent the setting of the sea.