what did they find at the end of the path?
were there answers?
were there solutions?
was the way clear,
the sky cloudless?
did the dragonflies finally speak?
did a bridge miraculously appear?
did the water turn to ice,
a solid foundation for the rest of the journey?
or did they jump and simply swim?
the swallows fly toward our heads—
i do not flinch
sunflowers and summer blooms
hand stitched tea towels
8 track tapes
cartons of blueberries
two babies riding in a red wagon
ladies in big straw hats
western paperbacks
blocks of soap
a collection of small, carved elephants
baskets of peaches
twirling ballerinas in pink boxes
a row of parked Harley Davidsons
wedding photos from 1935
an empty vessel
ready to be filled,
to be curated, exhibited–
to hold and protect,
to be a respectable receptacle
for that which can sprout
and grow
and bloom
and slowly fade away
when the days of summer
rest in our souls,
they are light
and bright
and full of lace
and shimmering grace
her ripped hem
teethmarks on a pencil
cracks in an old tea pot
a bruised cherry
his crooked glasses
markings on a shell
patched suitcases
a wedding photo and
two missing buttons
what she most desired
was desire
sitting beside the Youghiogheny River,
i listened to the sound of its waters,
watched a wolf spider,
and caught a glimpse of a dipping hawk–
what did the Algonguin
tribes see when they came here?
what did they feel when they looked into
the sky and over the mountains?
what did they know when they sat on the
rocks and scanned the horizon for sunning snakes?
we think we might know, but really,
we will never know
your simple lines and curls are the
very definition of perfection
the ducks bob and float in the river waters,
ignoring the barking dogs and the crying children,
treading the choppy waves left behind by a speeding boat–
living directly from moment to moment
spanishwoods 