Friday, April 14, 2006

Miller's Cove

I am at the house by the lake;
the little cedar house
John’s grandpa built.
You remember, don’t you?
There are those shutters
with stars cut out
and the boathouse still has bees.
I have been here for eight days
and have spoken to no one
save the man at Cooper’s store.
On the first day I told him
you might be coming;
told him not to worry
if a strange car was parked
in the drive- that it was you,
and I’d be fine.

Every morning I have seen an owl.
He sits on the same branch
and looks down towards the water.
I have watched the dragonflies
and seen the sun disappear behind the pines.
I’ve sat on this porch
and imagined a hundred things
to say to you; a thousand ways
to touch you.

I know you’re not coming,
though it felt so fine
to say out loud that I thought you might.
To say your name
to a stranger in the daylight
was the sweetest thing
to cross my lips in so long.

Summer’s almost here.
The rowboats have been painted
The water is warm now.
Soon I will go and leave behind
a perfect silence
and even the woods will forget
the song of your name.

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