Squiby

i

It has been as I always suspected
it would be. No less than to
turn over to sleep and fall away deeply.
Fall into blue to indigo to black.

Wait! Can't the moonlight crackle
and burn, sputter like a tallow wick,
Catch and blossom into flame?

ii

The afternoon Sun is oblivious
to the conversation in the other room.
The generations hear each other
in the stories and laughter.
The birds call from the hedge.

The sunlight moves across the wall,
over baskets on the bookshelf,
over old prints of French castles.
It moves of its own accord,
inexorable and unforgiving.
One hundred years of afternoons
have crossed this room from wall to wall.

Outside, the stones scream in agony
and the lawn cannot hide.
The trees boil the light into green.

iii

Breakfast on the last day -
cupcakes
hot dogs (no buns)
boiled eggs
dill relish
ice cream.

iv

Red as cooked lobsters,
we think we know all the roads now and
enter the Chilmark General Store
like natives -

Or so we imagine.

August, 2010 \ July 2026