This little lake has held us like a looking glass
for more than fifty years, and here I am again,
alone, unless ghosts go with us, roaming as we
so often did—as I do now—around this small
drop of water caught close within these long
familiar hills. Somewhere among the trees,
beside this beaten path, everything is still the
same—and different.
.
…………………………………….I’ve surprised myself
by coming back so soon without you—although
I knew that you would be here, somewhere near
—a whisper in the air, or a faint configuration
in a favorite tree, or simply something somehow
somewhat less clear, yet still distinct, something
that we might have talked about a time or two,
or, more likely, written of, when we were so
far apart that even distance was a kind of art.
Certainly, that was always true for you—you,
who always made even foreign things and
unfamiliar maps mean whatever you wanted.
.
This day is overcast, but a huge Ruisdael cloud
has just floated by, much like one, I think, you
said you’d seen somewhere in Italy, Florence
(was it?) almost half a hundred years ago. Time
does seem to scrap and scatter things, but keeps
them together too, just as it often did for us
when we were apart. You probably would have
called it art. I guess it was, or always is. Yet,
I’m here still, still searching for words suitable,
trying to make them mean, sending them to you.
.
How we travelled—Martin’s Ferry brought
to Boston, and then on ships to sea, back and
forth, again and again, time after time. You
knew the routes better than I did—and often
told me so. I tried, vicariously, to keep you
always in view. It’s true that we shared several
foreign places (if at different times) and some-
times even some of the same things—from
our own quite different perspectives, true. You
painted them in poetry; I in pedestrian prose.
.
A woman with a little dog has just cut across
the path ahead. Now, the dog has scampered
off, on his long leash, and the woman is trying
to reign him back in. And then, just as quick
as that, they have both gone, off the beaten path,
into the deeper trees, and I’m alone again. I can
only provide these brief details and this short
report; you, I’m sure, would make a story of it.
.
So. I take my time, and wander where I will.
I can stop and rest, or circle back. I can go
round, and around again—as I just have. But,
since I’m now near the end of what has seemed
like one of our long walks, and turning to return
again, I wanted to let you know that our little
lake, this early autumn afternoon, is calm,
the water cold and crystal clear.