Saturday, September 19, 2015
My new friend walks before me
on the woodland path
one amber-cast summer day.
Points out a cave of stones,
an old lime kiln, a granite totem,
talks of sugar maples, yellow birch, hickory.
“What do you like about the woods?” she asks.
The light, the way it filters
through the trees. The way leaves capture
its brightness or cast shadows into the dark.
We walk through a graveyard,
leaning mossy stones, trace fingers
over carvings worn,
then amble up a dirt road
to a small cabin beside an old brick house.
“Anyone here,” she calls.
A bearded face appears
in the upstairs cabin window.
My friend requests permission
to cross the lawn, ponder the view.
“Hartley Hill,” she tells me,
as we gaze over soft hills and valleys,
drink in the quiet..
Before us wait two wooden lawn chairs
where you might sit in the late evening,
talk through the day with your beloved.
I could live here, my dreamy self says
as if hypnotized by some heady wine.
But still I would be isolated,