Another Painting Day, Painting the Barn

Another painting day, perched atop the ladder,
propped precariously at the top of the barn that isn’t a barn,
painting the trim that frames my home, barn-shaped,
a brilliant red, a barn red, the finishing touches
tying my place together, the dark of brown
and brilliant red in sharp contrast, framed,
each standing out from the other in starkness;
and the eagle calls again, this day too, calling my gaze
away, towards the lake, searching, seeking him out,
following his voice and, my eyes keenly trained, finding him,
a small white dot in a tree, long dead, on the distant shore
opposite my work, a clear view from this height, spotting him
in a scraggly tree, tall and bare and lifeless but for him there; 
he calls me, now, to look there, squinting
across this channel that separates us, him and me,
perched and staring out, we two, here at the lake,
calls me, to himself perhaps, in eagle cry,
away from my chore for a short time, time enough,
perched there on my own scraggly tree of a ladder,
time enough to see him lift up, his great wings spread,
and disappear beyond the trees, above the hills,
over an horizon where I cannot go, grounded as I am,
here atop the ladder, perched and staring, squinting,
small, at the lake, small, in nature’s realm,
and brought back to my task, the job at hand,
another painting day, painting the barn,
tying us all together.

A Morning Fog

A fog rests on the lake,

cold air confronting the warmth of summer water,

obscuring the far shore, a faint line, jagged

in the opaque whiteness of diffused light;

the far end of the dock, too, is blurred,

barely visible, only a gray outline of post and board,

an artist’s first sketch on a blank canvas, lightly drawn,

the soft pounding of the boat, muted, as it rocks there

in this world, wet in the early morning chill,

a world, otherwise, silent, in silence shrouded.

Painting the Barn

It’s not a real barn, like you’d picture in the country,

no stalls lined up for cattle and cow, a horse or two,

nor a loft rafter-stuffed with hay drying

and set aside for the coming winter months,

the mice burrowing there, settling in for the days ahead,

like us, settling into this home where we live now, barn-shaped

and in need of a fresh coat of paint, the old brindle

faded and chipped, ready for change, flaking off and falling

as I rest my ladder high to reach the eaves

and climb, tentative and hesitant, upward climbing,

the heights not bothering me, but bothered still

by aluminum rungs aquiver taking me higher and higher,

higher to where I hang my paint bucket, hooked

to a rung below me, secured, secure myself and ready.

The paint is a rich brown, a homey color, warm and earthy,

and dipping my brush, excess dripping and swiped away, I begin,

a steady brushing down and up and down and up, secure and alone,

for this is solitary work, solitary work to stay my mind;

a breeze slightly blows up here, carrying the scent

of woodlands, fir and pine and cedar, and loamy earth,

and an eagle calls, the mournful cry of a loon echoing

over the chatter of squirrels unseen in the trees around me,

unseen even as I disappear into my own soul

here atop this ladder, carried higher still amid bird calls

and the chipping, chirping voice of squirrels:

painting the barn alone, a fresh coat of paint,

ready for change, secure.

In the Cemetery in Monson

Like Our Town, I see them sitting there

in little folding chairs, a theatrical touch,

the fathers and “belovéd wives of,”

their sons and daughters, agéd parents,

lined up in rows, a dozen or so families buried here,

or gathered around an obelisk pointing skyward,

heavenward, bearing the old names and dates

of those gathered here, sitting there, their hands

folded gently on their laps, conversing, as they always have,

living still, in death, the lives they had

carved out for themselves, here in this place,

this small town branching outward from the little

church where they gathered, gathering even now

as on any other Sunday, gathering to worship,

sup, and talk of crops and quarries,

of passing days and nights, marriages and children,

perpetuity and the prospects of the future,

a future growing older here, here where they gather

even now in death, as in life;

and I wonder what they gave up to stay,

what bigger dreams they abandoned to remain,

and now, long sitting here in passing years,

no longer, even, welcoming neighbors passing, too,

for all have passed and sitting here, gathered,

would they go back for one more day, one last visit,

if they could, as they can, as Wilder penned,

a twelfth birthday, weddings and funerals, birth

and death, or are they content now, content to spend

their days here, this small town here where they lived,

where they live still, dreaming and wondering:

“live people just don’t understand.” 

Windblown

Windblown, wind-whipped,

the water rises from its smooth

gloss to a frenzy, rising up

to spray, to throw itself

shore-ward, rushing, tearing, lashing out,

windblown, wind-whipped, frenzied.