Getting Carried to Bigelow Bay

Waiting for the rain to clear
The last patches of wildfires
Smoldering in Valhalla,

Watching wet braids course the street
Through the core of the village,
Old, brightly painted buildings

Glazed now--survived another
Wildfire season—there are posts,
Remainders of foundations

And loading docks in the bay,
Reminders even older
Buildings once lined the lakeshore,

But fires ate them long ago.
Everything you see is more
To the world than there once was

As well as less than there was.
No gaining without changing,
No changing without losing.

Light Limbed

You like being home
In the warm lamplight
So much you’ll give up

Late summer weather,
Thrill to an autumn
Grown unromantic,

Just to sit, well-wrapped,
The darkness outside
Gathering itself,

The fire in the grate
A season early.
As they get rarer,

Early falls, early
Winters, will become
Precious. Silly soul!

You’re already there!
This is your last fall
In all likelihood.

Early and precious,
Your nights by the stove
And under the lamp

With black in the trees,
And peace in your limbs,
And frost in the breeze.