Dreams of Living on a Point
That Sunday at a distance
the house we paddled toward
slapping waves against
what bow protected us—
Ryan was dead reckoning
on its white against a green sward
a channel marker on its point
standing low beside the water
seemed quite important, seemed
the kind of thing to do in spring
tote a used canoe on down
the hill from Stoneybrae
to launch beside the beach
for Sunday entertainment—
on approach was less than lived in
and too modest for good waterfront
Inside the Beltway! Fabulous!
Ryan’s realtor—nella voce mimed.
In a previous existence
a manmade reservoir, the lake
a fraction of Hetch Hetchy’s scandal
being drowned, the Keeper’s house
would have had a different cast
an eastern forest leaning
toward dark water wildlife reverbed
1920s outside Washington
the not quite whore of empire.
The upper reaches of once steep
ravines held narrow tracks from deer
for watering and surreptitious fishers casting lines
with hawks and eagles, osprey
gliding in free air above the solitary house
vaguely of an image
lowland southern comfort
upon a close inspection—could be
good enough to lure one home
sitting in a western sun, beer and book
to watch the great parade
—two stout oaks just before
the house where no one
stirred. We turned
to beat the wind
a second leg of paddling
newcomers to this sanctum
like trespass on a private world
such provincials might appreciate.
Ryan would have been thirteen
trying out for track, his old man
proud, finding both their rhythms
in a scrambled life of weekends
son and father seeing life
as what was striven for
not cowards
in amiable agreement
stroking hard against the chop
and wind on passage out, returning
took another look, concurred
the house had prospects.
It might have fit in Carolina
my mother’s or a neighbor’s, was
that modest standing shore side
a trick of eye that made it
seem a distance manse.
In the Keeper’s day
with nothing but the water fowl
raising offspring trumpeting
there amidst the pine and oak
he might have known a better peace
living in that place a perfect life
planted on a table plane of grass.
Soon to bring the husky pups
into our lives beneath the trees
with views to water—too soon
Ryan fell in love.
Afflicted by the art of mask
compelled to pen and bum wad
living painful truths and stunned—
beside his body in a morgue in Christiansburg
—the image comes unbidden—look away.
I can see it in my mind, first glimpse
from a crushed shell drive— one leg
thrust out, a stone and glass pavilion, timber beams
and columns, pinned joinery describe a stoa
daydreamed of, descended from
Katsura through Greene and Greene
to frame a lawn in miniature
plantation under shade
forthright let it glow at lakeside
condense the Keepers’ house
to one grand opera set
mid-spanning fieldstone hearth
and hacienda wide planks
floor to rafters open it
glass shoji screens for walls
oriels for morning light
wrap a finger porch about
the two trees kissing lawn
floating like a barely tethered boat
to light a torch upon the lake
survive like this.
Dreams are hollow, time
is short and years have passed and boats
parade again this evening
trolling on their batteries
past two agéd majesties
neglected in their vines
drape the humid air
before a sagging porch
where no one waits upon
the Keeper coming home.
The couple glides, their dogs on bow
their Roman barge now passing
the two trees standing noble
in late sun with one blue heron
stiffened near the shadowed lawn
in shallow water watching
while riding into evening he bows
quietly, “Good night sweet prince.”
April, 2009