These Hazy Days

Empty Nester

An old man spins a wheel, wooden,
Soft under the wind-wearing touches of his hands.
All around him, in the roaring rain of the autumn night,
Carpets hang.

    Miles and miles, over crags that seek the sea,
    A young woman writes a letter. She seals the envelope
    With a modest word too honest for the margins.
    Rainwater in the gutter stagnates.
    Fruit flies cling, querelous, to the bosoms of still-life bowls.
    She sets out upon the riddled silk, alone in the dark
    With her rowboat.
    Flames grow in the gables, falling over and over themselves.

    Miles and miles, below the gaze of crags that seek the sea,
    She sails.

The old man turns the pedals of his craft
While wingless whimbrels construct empty nests
In the rafters above his head.
His telescope is dusty. The carpets weep with rain.
His daughter, fled of twenty years, comes back
To him again.

Unseeing, he hears a soft tap on the door.
But old men don't take visitors;
Weary hands work wooden locks.

    The woman stands on cold black rock
    And sees the light go out.