Sunday morning early poem

what about it is there qestoins that go with it?

Sunday Morning Early

My daughter and I paddle red kayaks

across the lake. Pulling hard,

we slip through the water.

Far from either shore,

my daughter is a young woman

and suddenly everything is a metaphor

for how short a time we are granted:

the red boats on the blue black water,

the russet and gold of late summer's grasses,

the empty sky. We stop and listen to the stillness.

I say, "It's Sunday, and here we are

in the church of the out of doors,"

then wish I'd kept quiet. That's the trick in life-

learning to leave well enough alone.

Our boats drift to where the chirring

of grasshoppers reaches us from the rocky hills.

A clap of thunder. I want to say something truer

than I love you. I want my daughter to know that,

through her, I live a life that was closed to me.

I paddle up, lean out, and touch her hand.

I start to speak then stop.