Two years ago yellow warblers built a nest in the roses
outside of the ranger cabin at North Hero State Park in Lake Champlain. Two
years ago we were a nest, the five of us, woven and resting and thriving. The
scene I wrote down two years ago could be titled ‘nighttime in a cabin,’ or
‘Living in Community,’ but also ‘blow up your TV.’ There is magic in a summer
night, the only sounds breathing, turning pages, crickets outside and a moth
against a screen.
The haunting cry of calling loons,
A cabin in the woods.
Pages turn in yellow light,
Stillness here imbued.
Friends with eyes held fast in books
Have bodies calmly cast
In different patterns, folded deep,
A presence formed in past.
Nighttime beckons, darkness calls,
As words bind friends in pulsing thrall.
or
Their bodies are shadows,
The lines and patterned limbs
Cast by thrall and rapture.
Substance lying in stories, bodies
are echoes, afterthoughts,
They are
Formed inside pages.
