Drift Poem by Ernest Hilbert

The sky is warm and heavy before rain.
You throw down anchors. They till lines in soft
Clay, blooming muddy clouds. You sometimes slow,
Sometimes speed, as you pass forest and plain.
In summer, sludge smolders; in fall, leaves waft
Onto the deck. The water rolls and glows.
At ports you take on granite, grain, sandstone.
Canals narrow and widen. Locks buoy
And release. The barge rests more deeply
In sluggish brown water. You are alone.
It doesn't seem to move but does; though free
It holds to its course, pulled toward the sea.
Memories gather, and thoughts become strange.
Between naps, the banks hardly seem to change.