Sunday, January 9, 2011


A strange thing happened, years ago, while waiting for bus One;
an old man turned to me and asked if I'd ever tasted sun.
I replied, "The yellow ball out there, 'round which the world is based?"
Then shook my head and answered him, "I've never had a taste."

And after that I blinked at him, unsure what to do.
Finally I questioned back, "Why do you ask? Have you?"
He said he had. "In fact, my friend, I just made sunshine stew,
with hearty rays of warmer days and drops of morning dew."

I told him I would like to try a bit of that strange dish.
He looked at me quite hard and said, "Perhaps I'll grant your wish.
You must tell me, though," he said, "that you believe it's true
that I went out and collected rays to make my sunshine stew."

"For I have found through many years the stew does but appeal
to those who ask me for a taste trusting it is real
that I speak truth in my old age, and not that I am crazy.
Belief takes work and so I'll warn, the stew's not for the lazy."

I simply sat a moment there deeply lost in thought,
wondering if I believed in this mysterious sunshine draught.
I decided that it was not real and sent him on his way,
knowing never tasting sun was the price that I would pay.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011


Tuesday, January 4, 2011


We traveled back by motor boat
our bellies full of ice cream,
cherishing the last moments of quite a long day
at the beginning of what would be quite a short week.

It was the end of the summer,
and, for us, the end of the summer
might as well have meant the end.

By August, our time together was all we remembered knowing.
Anything before was a blur;
perhaps important to us in some other life,
but irrelevant to this:

our era on the lake

an era that was quickly coming to a close.

So, we toured the lake.
We held our own sort of private parade
through dimly-lit water where we had spent a season in the sun.

It was dark, but we knew the way
back to the shore of our camp;
we could find it when we needed,
but we didn't need it quite yet.

Instead, we boldly pioneered into coves unfamiliar,
guided by the warm, yellow lights of homes along the shore.
I know that we passed window after window on that last voyage,

but I only recall seeing one.

As we drew near to the house, light from inside illuminated the whole structure
every chair
and table
and book
and shelf was revealed through
of glass,
stretching high above
the head of a man
sitting inside.

This dollhouse,
with walls cut away,
disclosed and betrayed
the private life of its inhabitant
confessed his secrets to us,
the silent tourists of the lake.

Did the man know he was being watched?
That his dollhouse was on display?

That I, from darkness, stared into his light
while he, from brightness, looked out upon the night?