Weekend

Nothing of salience had the road out lost For stubbornly refusing a view ahead. Depth of the windshield through the noiseless miles, Green bearing in, soothed as it terrified.

Wild asters second growth timber stalwart pines Just over the edge of the shoulders, red With iron natural to the soil. There I was Ready at any moment to turn off.

A white wooden arrow marked the place. Thick brush grazed my slowed hood. An indefinite blue glimpsed through trees proved lake water. When over soft needles I walked to your door

And saw in the eyes of you both for the first time A gay sobriety self pacified, I knew what you had to thank, and so did you Smiling toward the plain table and a big meal.

You were yourselves. Night hugely showed The eyelid how much inches might come to Under such fragment rafters such black air. Morning there never had been leaves so high

Out the window nor water so low By the rotting dock, low bright and unperturbed. Dark it was on the unruffled swell we pulled out onto. The island was soon behind, and the lake itself

Under our creaking oarlocks. The day was ours. In a thin stream's mouth you spied watercress, Plucked it at the root and took up your stint With wet hands at the oars. It was still

On the riverbend and deep where we shipped oars, Dropping our lines. All morning long Frogs and dragonflies held sway, while we Struggled in patience mostly with ourselves.

Few fish, but we were content to know The impress of stillness. Under the grey eminence Above dead trunks we were keeping an eye out For the huge rumored bird, eagle or whatever;

Above the granite ledge, just before we turned, Too much like a bird of prey for an eagle, Except eagles are birds of prey, hanging Over the water, horrid, it slowed, aloof.

The waves back were against us, heavier, Lights coming on as we pulled into the lake. There was nothing more to say. Our lulling noise Followed us to the dock. We groped up the path.

Next morning, mass at a wooden altar, The sacramental light the villagers Went about in as if the sun were not A bodilessly white unburning fire.

In that lull we photographed each other. All Sunday was peaceful repetition. I drove hard after sundown to find in the next strict morning The terrible demands had never budged.