Mary Kendall lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. She is a Reading Specialist and loves teaching children to read. She also loves having the opportunity to teach poetry to young children who are eager to write. She contributes poems to Poets Online on a regular basis, and she has a poem coming out in the May/June 2006 issue of The Wolf Moon Press Journal.
Ripe Figs
The Boy in the Kayak
Who Am I?
Ripe Figs
Umbrageous coolness overhead,
treasure quietly hidden
among the shadows.
Branches hold small pendulous figs,
some still hard and green,
others ripe, the color of paper bags.
Inside each, a tracery of seeds
lingers in the soft red flesh
eliciting a quiver of unexpected greed.
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The Boy in the Kayak
Mt. Desert Island , Maine
Moving fast like a gull skimming the glassy water,
the kayak glides across the marsh as the sun descends
through the trees on this quiet August evening.
The boy is alone, friends left back on one shore, family on the other.
He steers the slender kayak through the darkening water,
but the water's stillness is now punctuated by rippled V's.
It is then that he sees the dark bodies flying underwater,
twisting around one another, dancing among themselves.
One dolphin sees the red kayak and moves closer; others follow.
At first, the boy's breath catches and his heart races as one bumps
against the thin shell that separates him from them.
Another pushes his paddle, and he reaches out to touch
the creature's nose that is soft against his fingers.
They study one another as he strokes its head.
(He will later tell the story and recall how he saw a depth
in the dolphin's dusky eye he will never forget.)
For a moment, nothing happens, and then he moves his hand back
and begins to paddle. The dolphins guide him as if they know
he is a stranger who has lingered on the water a bit too long
as a summer's day makes its way into night.
By now, the air is chilled, the sun nearly down,
but the boy can see the cottage lights and hear voices
from the shore. He steers the kayak home.
Back on land, he pulls the kayak out of the water
and stands quietly on the stony beach. Night has come.
In the stillness of the air, he looks back toward the inlet.
His water guides have left him, off to feed or dance some more.
No fins, no ripples, no rush of water remain.
He sits there alone, unwilling to break the spell.
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Who Am I?
I am just a wisp,
a vision caught
at the edge of your eye.
I am just a thought,
a touch on the arm
you almost don't feel.
I am just a memory
pulled back down to earth.
I am just an image
of what could be
but is not.
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