put dad in the canoe

on the borders of the lake,
where the water
meets a fragmented shore,
leaves had collected,
and as we rode by
i could have scooped them up,
only to fill the red canoe
that my father was paddling.

we took a holiday to the lake
and discovered a canoe
in the boathouse for three
and oars for two,
and i discovered the little boy
in my father.
putting dad in the canoe,
with my uncle in back
and me in the middle,
he was 50 but instantly 11:
with an oar in his hands,
he traversed the lake
carrying us all with a smile
i'd never seen before.
his arms ached
for a week after,
but he never complained.