When She Imagines You Now                                                                     

It is always doing something

she has never seen you do.

Bending to draw a circle in the sand

in a single concentrated motion

with a lean sycamore branch.

Always in Maine. And it's winter

at low tide. The sands and snows

having crept together and driven

everyone away. But there you stand,

in faultless bareheaded solitude,

hewn into existence by the snap

and burn of unsoiled northern oxygen.

Then brushing the burrs from

a roan cob's tail. Alone in the barn,

warm and stilled at the end of day.

Immeasurable absorption in this plain,

intimate task. The two of you bathed

in a vinous brew of exhale, dander,

and silage.

Pulling a root from black November

earth of something you planted

and grew. Drawing back the curtain

at midday to take position of the skies.

Touching a Rafael.

Hoisting the mizzen. Brushing dirt

from your knee at Arlington. Sipping

coffee in Sao Paolo, silently watching

the dawn come in.

Sweeping dust from the stair

in your father's long-empty house.

Shaking the splintered filament

in a forty-watt bulb. Idly tapping

a cigarette on the faded roll of an

armchair. A sextant on your knee,

copper skin pocked with briny rust.

Touching the spine

of Merton's childhood prayer book.  

Laughing, with your son.

Choosing a stone for carving in Paros.                                                                         

Dawn light lacerating the mute blocks,

baring the one numinous tablet meant

only for you. Then heaving the weight

alone by mule and wagon, two days

of chalk and gravel to home. Lightly

as you lift the plan itself firsthand

to the deed.

The very idea of you, defying

senescence, contravening time.

Your son laughing, as only you can

hear him. This boy she will never

see you caress.

Peacock Journal, December 2018