Narrative. Broder le canevas
Time. Last spring I began to covet
A battered house on Carpenter Creek,
End of the road, woodshed and seedy
Garden sprawling around what would be
In another context just a shack,
Despite the jaunty satellite dish.
Every time I walked by on my way
To the lake to swim, I would notice
The south-facing location, the green
Sombrero of Goat Mtn rising
Over the hundred-plus year old roof,
The copse of mature woods, the quiet
Of a dead end just three blocks from town.
Between the shack's old split-log fences
And the constant rush of the river,
Plush green lawn and meadow, wildflowers
Fronted the far shore's birches and firs,
Beyond which more green and snowy peaks,
A canvas on which to imagine
Painting gazebos, sunrooms, studies,
Gabled windows, a bit of stained glass,
The kind of dreamy country cottage
That might get printed on a tea tray
Mass-produced in some dark factory
A million miles from my sunlit mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.