I didn’t when I was a child. Dad showed me
how when I was well-grown. We were in Newport,
Lake Memphremagog, at my uncle’s camp.
Mist on the water—that water always
cold. Fish under the dock. The old canoes
pulled up on the shore, the brick fireplace
where we toasted marshmallows. The big jug
of drinking water brought from town. Sarah
and I went to Canada once, to buy
fireworks we smuggled back in a beach bag.
A long time ago. The camp is gone, Dad
and Uncle Colin, too. But this morning,
I popped jewelweed along a path I walk
now, by a river. Mist on the water.