A Believer's Journal

into the chill grey dawn
over the dew-dripped lawn
treacled a half-grown fawn
out of the stillness

gunmetal sky hangs low
caressing birch below
as north winds gently blow
over the stillness

out of grey oaks so tall
from branches big and small
numberless acorns fall
into the stillness

slate-colored stone ledge curls
softened by green thyme swirls
under the gamboling squirrels
goading the stillness

all too soon morning blooms
and day’s agenda looms
but my soul still communes
with the stillness

sisters
as are wont
more different than alike

the elder
drawn and angular
hooked nose, bent fingers, spiked chin, flattened eyes
straight hair tautly pulled back from her face
sharp-cornered elbows echoed in the sharp corners of her somber-hued sweater
perturbed, inquiet, brooding, unpresent

the younger
all curves
round eyes, curved chin, curled fingers, arched brows
untamed swirls of softly-curled hair spilling over her forehead
warmly-bright lips reflected in the oranges and reds of her warmly-bright sweater
languid, dreamy, receptive, guileless

sisters
as are wont
brought close by fashion, but of different worlds
moon and sun, Chione and Persephone, Martha and Mary
one burdened by what she has seen, the other keen for what she has yet to see
one already dying, the other pregnant with possibility

sisters
in this moment caught together
but in the next and always and forever
apart

 

(N.B.  Since writing the poem this morning, I have discovered that the two depicted in the portrait are indeed a man and a woman, “Harlequin and his companion,” though I still see sisters!)

long damp grass grabs at the edges of my sandals
wetting the tops of my feet between leather straps with clammy coolness
        and I am grateful
hobbled obliging dog lurches over the lawn doing his jobs
dragging a sock-booted paw behind him
        and I am grateful
gangly Big Dolly flaunts its luxuriously swooping yellow and coral blossoms
drawing attention from the barren deer-bitten lilies surrounding it
        and I am grateful
dingy spent blossoms still glom to the severed laurel dangling from my hand
recalling the brilliant candy cane display that just days before had brought such delight
        and I am grateful
viscous mist rolls up from the Reach clinging to stark spruces and greyed blueberry barrens
belying persistent memories of sun-drenched and dazzling Maine summers
        and I am grateful

among scattered clouds orange sun looms
        still high in the southwestern sky
its orange light bathing orange sandstone boulders
        jumbled in shallow emerald waters

from high above we first spy the pond
        this jewel among the mountain peaks
an beatific island floats at it center
        and dark green spruce crowd its banks

following sea blue blazes and stacked stone cairns
        we descend the grey granite ridge
tired legs and tired lungs
        still recovering from the grueling climb

at the shores of the alpine pond
        we gaze over its glistening waters
delighted by the flittering schools of chub at our feet
        and promising splashes farther out

after shedding our day packs
        we zip off the bottoms of convertible hiking pants
and replace hiking boots with water shoes
        eager for a fishing adventure

we piece together fly rods
        and rig lines and reels
doing our best to ignore the swarming black flies
        as we assemble leaders and tippets

I tie on a hare’s ear wet fly
        with soft partridge hackle
wading out over slippery rocks
        to a stable spot from which to cast

the next two hours will see many casts
        a few overeager chub brought to hand
and six magnificent, extraordinarily beautiful, elegantly exquisite — did I say, magnificent?
        Tumbledown Pond brook trout

duck harbor sunset
(an acrostic poem)

black silhouette of mast and forestays pierce
cotton candy clouds edged in waning light
dark limbs of jagged spruce and duck harbor’s looming headland
extrude from the periphery of the photograph
framing the numinous scene ever seared into memory
gracious moment intimating an inexpressible
holiness for which neither word nor image suffice
ineffable, transcendent, and sublime

into the familiar flow of an ordinary day
there breaks a brief instant
of exquisite longing

not for another world, but for this world
for what it could be, what it should be
what it can be

longing for synchronicity
for synchronous affinity, for multilateral humility
for unrelenting comity

for eyes attentive
to subtle tonalities of stone and leaf
and human skin

for ears attuned
to the glorious cacophonies of wind and wave, of bird song
and human speech

for hands offered
palms open, not fists closed, intimating the offer too
of a human heart

for mouths enouncing words
not to cajole or outdo or intimidate, not to revile or ridicule or fulminate
but to reveal, disclose, elucidate, to heal, delight, appreciate

longing for an unquenchable thirst for life itself
and for the glory of sharing it, one with an other
one with every other

into the familiar flow of an ordinary day
there breaks the breathtaking luminescence
of an exquisite longing