Tubing on the New River

We float down the river on tubes tethered with ropes.
You take pictures of clouds in water while I close

my eyes, recalling our first year together, how you fell
and injured your shoulder while playing pickleball,

and I fell face-down in the mud while walking my dog.
Of course, we’d fallen many times before—from trees, 

bikes, railings, ladders, landing on elbows and knees,
but when you’re older more is at stake—broken bones,

vertigo, strokes. Lying on your bed with my head
on your shoulder (the uninjured one), I was afraid

I’d hurt you if I moved, so I stayed silent, still. I’m falling
in love with you, you said, and I loved you for saying it first.

Not I think I’m falling, but I’m falling. Now you tug
the rope to free my tube snagged on a fallen log. Air hisses

from punctured rubber as I sink into the shallows. Gallantly,
you offer your tube and pull me and the deflated one

downstream as if I’m Cleopatra eating grapes on a barge.
When we reach the shore I slip and fall on my butt,

sitting in water up to my neck, and when you extend
your hand, you fall in too—a slapstick cartoon—you

falling, me falling, both of us falling deeper
as we float these green currents together.