Deer Isle

Conor Van Riper

To know the thrill of loneliness,

upon an evergreen canoe.

Bedeviled by your aquatic body,

moored on the sea floor

at low tide.

Russ Island and I share a tense glance

beneath towering,

holy giants.

Yet, still there,

the maiden’s hair,

full of flowers

fair and wild, grants

tart wineberries to my tongue

whenever my thoughts should wander;

and the tides wash me away again.