At the Millay Colony

At the Millay Colony

Discouraged,
up the road I pace,
then down to the pond
where ice forms like fat
rising in chicken broth,
where the cherry tree,
fallen one thunderous night,
spans the water.

There, straddling the trunk,
wrinkled mastodon
awaiting the caretaker's saw,
when he gets to it,
I watch the four-toed
salamander lap the cherry's shadow,
watch my mutable self
mirrored below the sky,
darkening
without fire.

Across the dry-grassed meadow
the poet's cabin stands: woodstove,
childlike desk, pen,
blank notepad. Blank
as the rain-streaked window
until late that afternoon
framed in a pane of glass
the setting sun's reflection burns
bright as the light
on my typewriter's rim
signaling on.

an older poem, date unknown

for more poems in response to this prompt see Magpie Tales.

Thanks to willow for the photo.