Miss Martha’s tied tight
Her crew long gone to shelter –
Embowered by these unkempt oaks
This balcony serves well
To spy on life below but
Safe from annoying engagement.
I am making my way toward the island’s main house from the boat landing. Having some distance to go, and these old legs growing tired, I find myself drawn to that table and those chairs to my right. They are calling to me from the cool of the shade of the meandering branches of those old oaks, and I fancy they have been waiting patiently for my weary passing along this dusty path this hot and humid dog-day Georgia afternoon.
This garden entrance is well tended,
Suggesting a pleasing view behind.
Yet I dare not try the latch
For fear of disappointment.
Some doors, you’ll agree, are best left closed,
For heaven’s allure is strongest when veiled.
A kayak drifts in the quiet waters
Of a grass-lined, winding creek –
Early morning walk
Wakening birds season the quiet
Joggers to arrive soon
Sun to rise soon
Cars to cobblestone-rumble by soon
I look to this gate
It seems secure
I ponder what shelter may lie behind
A broken chair amid
Small broken joys
Wait weeks for broken trucks
Up and down these broken streets.