An industrious week–pear jam, gazpacho, chicken stock, yard cleanup… the delicious tasks of summer. Though it doesn’t say so, this seems like a summer poem to me.
Sixty miles from a lake,
no river or pond within forty-eight,
no ocean near,
and this rowboat, crisply painted, oarlocks
oiled, oars set and cocked,
in a small—mossy, pine needles—clearing
of sparse gray and yellow forest grass.
The light here: like joy, pain, like glass.
On its bow, in red paint, beside the anchor rope,
its name: A Joy To Be Hidden
But a Disaster Not To Be Found.
An odd place, a long name, for a boat