Some other place and time,
one long gone summer
smoldered to ash,
yet here she is,
back to the camera,
eyes to the horizon,
a drift of wind
catching her hair,
little lake swells
cresting beneath her toes –
a day in the sun
still just begun.

Just as you know
that the sweet soul
in the bathrobe standing
over your shoulder
will still love you even after
your toast crumbs have fallen
all over her clean kitchen floor,
there will come a day
when you will pull yourself up
out of this dark funk,
straighten your posture,
lift your head to the sun,
and return every little mercy
that has ever been given to you.

Where you’ve been
is where you are still,
and it’s been so long
since you got here.
Too long to bullshit yourself,
much less anyone else,
into believing anything
you say anymore.
Too long to win back
all that you’ve lost.
Too long to remain quiet.
Too long to shout.
Too long to crawl out
unscathed on your own.
Too long to forget
any of this.
Too long to remember
the way home.

Collect yourself.
Leave everything else
as it is.
Don another layer.
Lock the door behind you.
Pull up your collar.
Stiffen your shoulders.
Keep your head straight.
Keep your eyes on the road.
Don’t lose sight.
Go with or against the flow
depending upon what truth you know.
Protect your breath.
Find something to hold onto.
Don’t get swept away
by the whirlwind of today.

We lived down the lane,
past the lumber mill,
across the old iron bridge
near the rotting church
where we used to gather
on Sundays to pray for our souls.

This was where we spent our days,
barely getting along,
disenchanted with life, never satisfied
with being part of a whole.
We thought we were all
so special, you know,
but our roads were as lonely,
empty, and cold
as a valley of ghosts.

I saw oblivion once
on the side of the road,
a shabby clapboard house
listing in the sun, its paint peeling
like flakes of dead skin.
The yard was full of junk and debris,
but clearly someone was living inside.
Tee shirts flapped madly out on a line
like flags of surrender
waving in the breeze.
I considered this as I drove on.
Where and when does salvation end?

What are we doing out here,
somewhere north of nowhere,
our feet sunk in the shallows
of a cold river bed?

We were yearning and young once –
memories come rushing downstream
as clear and rocky as this river bottom,
glinting gold in the summer sun.

It’s the best and worst time of year
for visiting this familiar place,

yet here we are again, off-season,
staring out at the wide expanse

of open space – grey silent lake,
grey painted brushstrokes on the horizon,

white tendrils of breath, ominous black island
peeking through the mist.

From this vacant beach we can almost see
a lifetime of summers missed.

Tonight I’m looking at a photograph
taken in a shopping mall years ago;
my father, my stepmother,
and my two children
lined up before the camera
like captive soldiers.
It occurs to me that this is the only picture
I have of them all together.

They are bundled up
in coats and hats, almost smiling.
Lit wreaths gleam in the background.
The irony.
My father did not celebrate holidays,
would likely not approve.
Yet here I am, so many years later,
in my lap, the Christmas card never sent.