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