Hurricane Lodge

It wasn’t what we were look­ing for
one preter­nat­ural sum­mery day
in March, in the Dav­en­port dust.
No app or web­site pre­pared us to find
such a ves­sel of hope near the lev­ees
(they get as much use this year…

That meadow was lousy
with “No Tres­pass­ing” signs,
trees, poles, stumps

even stone walls afflicted
by owner’s sig­na­ture
recit­ing what was verboten.

No sex, drugs or rock and roll!
Worn plac­ards a vir­tual
micro­miniskirt on fine, grassy limbs,

an invi­ta­tion …

It doesn’t take much to change a charmed exis­tence and as 2012 (hope­fully a much bet­ter year for the world) breathes its hot breath on this icy night, I reprise a poem about just that which orig­i­nally appeared in Loch …

It was sum­mer.  So despite the Octo­ber snow, I thought I’d bring back this mid­sum­mer ramble.

High Sum­mer in the Upper Valley

There really is a Windy Blood Lane:
exit the pond on Potato Road,
for­get the two pairs …

I.

We strug­gle to see the green flash;
in sum­mer, sit patiently
on the gray deck at twi­light
fac­ing Cut­ty­hunk and her sister isles

as fog dis­si­pates and nav­i­ga­tion tower
emerges at the entrance to New­port Har­bor
like some over­sized Queen’s …

There is still some snow in the woods and hol­lows but it’s def­i­nitely spring now. Still, a mail­box poem seemed in order in all this rain.