Message To A Widow
In a small, protected inlet of the evening pond,
loud white in a strong shaft of final, flaming sun,
one swan lies on quiet water,
(not the two of daily habit),
head buried into breast,
asleep on the movement of a gentle swell.
It is as though this radiant path of sun
were heaven sent
specifically,
to sanctify,
Thanksgiving
Eighteen eider ducks
are swimming in the sun
from Vineyard Haven’s harbor
on their lighthouse run
underneath our dock and by
our bright sand cove
they pause to feed, then spin and
dance in pairs, as if in love
with the freezing winter weather
come too soon: November, first
plunging from Indian summer
November 5, 2008
The horse is Obama
The geese are Obama
The green field is Obama
The trees on the ridge are Obama
The clouds are Obama
The blue sky is Obama
The woman who cries is Obama
The boy who became a man is Obama
The husband who is away is Obama
The friend who says wow is Obama
The black woman who voted for McCain is Obama
Alley’s General Store
In times of yore, one humble store
Sustained our tiny town.
‘Twas not the kind where one might find
A fancy evening gown.
Instead, our needs — from nails to seeds —
Were modest as the dickens,
And Nancy Luce had little use
For lipstick on her chickens.
These wooden walls held overalls
To fit most any size;
Dog at the Funeral
For Dave Willey (1947-2008)
I didn’t see him when two planes did a fly-by,
one on the right peeling off in missing-man formation.
Not until I saw his picture with Dave and Dave’s family —
a big lug of a dog, a Great Dane, but smaller, a Doberman,
but ears cupped, long tail, bright eyes, and an open mouth.
He walked through the door as we sat, looking around
Autumn
Dear Crickets, doomed to die,
Bless you, for so am I.
How bravely your song of Autumn
Accepts without remorse
The ordaining of Winter.
Hidden in the hearth,
faith of future generations
Beyond the snow, beyond death:
’Tis humble your chirrup
And full of courage
As we too might be
If we could but see