In The Holidays

In the Holidays


Classes disperse, semester
ends. Last details are tended to.

I’m off on summer’s way,
not to Grecian isles, British heaths, or Roman hills.

I stay at home
(or not at home) as you see it.

A canoe I craft for a special cruise
sans waiters, decks, or pool.
Up the Merrimack and Concord too
the canoe cracks and needs repair.
I wind my way through lazy afternoons,
aloof to the time,
aware of Time.

I walk slowly along the Cape,
watching for sunken
wrecks—and quiet squaws.
Will I know how to speak to them?

I spend some seasons at the Pond,
losing my way, some nights, in the dark.
On moonless nights I even crawl.

I visit some old friends: pines, elms, and oaks.

Called to Perth Amboy to survey, I go.
En route by rail I spy newly flowering Cornel trees,
read at the Astor Library awaiting my covered wagon.

Finally, the summer ended,
Fall so near, I, unfinished,
stop.

That was my summer, holy days, with Thoreau.