It’s very eerie to look out the windows at the pines shivering just a little, at the remnant red maple and aspen leaves fluttering, at the blue streaks between the clouds, the shafts of sunlight on the water. Eerie because a big storm is heading our way – the Grief Point wind alert is pretty clear on that.

As I circled the house, tucking buckets and planters out of the wind’s reach, I remembered a poem I’d included in my chapbook driftwood/Driftwood.

It’s calm out here tonight
the water a murmur against the pebbles
an overheard (not quite) exchange between:
          lovers in an alcove
          a father soothing an anxious child
          sisters standing offside at their mother’s hospital bed
snatched conversations anchored deep in long acquaintance
love, perhaps, or recrimination.

But tonight there’s an accommodation
recognition of an anchor snagged
on something old
holding fast at great depth.

That’s the kind of conversation they’re having,
these two, the quiet water
and the gentle stones
murmuring in each others ears.

If you’re still, you can feel the ripple
shivering down the strait
lifting the hair up the back of your neck.
A cloud moves across the stars.

Farther out, the air is riding a manic line
down the falling pressure, a gyre twisting into a funnel
aimed toward this placid junction of liquid light and stone.

Afloat, you’re holding onto kelp, onto low slung cedar boughs
onto those memories of quiet laughter
lips close to a proffered ear
arm around a waist
the leaning in of sea to shore
hoping the anchor holds.

 

Here’s hoping we’re still here tomorrow!

PS If you think driftwood/Driftwood would make a good present, let me know. Easy to wrap, easy to mail. $20 includes postage.