MIDSUMMER LETTER
The polished black granite
cemented over your head
reflects the full moon of June
four months from the day
your chest went still
For you, the gloom of June
was annual; you watched
the red leaves on Huldah's maple
burn down your summer's day
Kate MacKay had me to supper
in Grafton, to read your poems
to our Hitchcock nurses.
Mary hooted when I read " The Shirt."
Walking to the car, I was happy
under the summer light harsh
with stars.
Nan died Wednesday
Remember, when you visited her,
how you painted her nails pink
and she spread her fingers out
unable to speak but grateful.
Alone after fifty-five years,
Paul is heartsick.
We scattered
your mothers ashes in Eagle Pond
at the same spot where, two
years ago, we watched your fathers float and sink
I believe in the miracles of art but what
prodigy will keep you safe beside me
Most days I wake at five-thirty
to work on these poems
The hour we live in,
two years by the pond
has transformed into a single unstoppable day,
gray in the dwelling-place
of absence. Tonight I sat
in nighttime silence by the open
window
Last night before I slept
I walked out
to look at the cold summer moon
as it rose over Ragged Mountain
I slept six hours,
then woke in the dark morning
to see it huge in the west
as if it were any June.
cemented over your head
reflects the full moon of June
four months from the day
your chest went still
For you, the gloom of June
was annual; you watched
the red leaves on Huldah's maple
burn down your summer's day
Kate MacKay had me to supper
in Grafton, to read your poems
to our Hitchcock nurses.
Mary hooted when I read " The Shirt."
Walking to the car, I was happy
under the summer light harsh
with stars.
Nan died Wednesday
Remember, when you visited her,
how you painted her nails pink
and she spread her fingers out
unable to speak but grateful.
Alone after fifty-five years,
Paul is heartsick.
We scattered
your mothers ashes in Eagle Pond
at the same spot where, two
years ago, we watched your fathers float and sink
I believe in the miracles of art but what
prodigy will keep you safe beside me
Most days I wake at five-thirty
to work on these poems
The hour we live in,
two years by the pond
has transformed into a single unstoppable day,
gray in the dwelling-place
of absence. Tonight I sat
in nighttime silence by the open
window
Last night before I slept
I walked out
to look at the cold summer moon
as it rose over Ragged Mountain
I slept six hours,
then woke in the dark morning
to see it huge in the west
as if it were any June.