May 2010

“Some Day I Will Build Here”

“SOME DAY I WILL BUILD HERE” – Lucia Weinhardt

When I first found it years ago,

this ramshackle affair was just barely a footprint

on a sweet and lonely piece of land

not too far from the back side’s ever-alluring edge.

Nestled amongst the low-lying scrub

and the skeletal bones of the once burnt and still sea-bent pines.

listing a bit beneath hovering crows and lowering skies,

those well-worn boards (barely four walls and some kind of floor)

called out to be stepped within and ruminated over – sung to me

“Come on in – check out the view! This place has possibilities!”

And then I found the words – were they scrawled in spray paint or brushed on by hand?

I don’t remember, but I do recall that the lettering was bold

and the intent was clear – a stake had been claimed, and plans had been laid.

I felt an instant link to the scrawler of these words – something in his determination spoke to me,

something in the certitude…

With utter simplicity he’d conveyed worlds of meaning and passion

and I felt an indefinable tie to the person whose

sure hand had laid down those letters and laid bare his dreams like that.

We stayed a little while, soaking up what was left of the day’s sun,

wondering together what the story was,

dreaming our own dreams,

wondering would he build.

Now years have passed, and I’ve never sought out that little shack again - 

(don’t know if it still stands)

but it always makes me smile to think of it

and those words, so strong and determned

and I feel certain that even if the walls have crumbled,

that dream still hovers there

just like the crows that surely still haunt the place with their own fierce cries.

Lucia Weinhardt

Return to the Summer House – Kate Cheney Chapell

RETURN TO THE SUMMER HOUSE

Air before rain,

air so sweet

I weep

my grandmother’s tears

as I open 

each window

            of the

            closed

            house,

remembering the scent of

water

in the air,

and her hair down to

brush out

before the sun had fully

set,

that slow, slow going down

of the July day,

the smell of gas from the

stove

where she was warming 

milk

       to drink 

       before bed.

How fresh the sheets of

night air

         that surround a

         child of eight,

how close the sound of the

whip-por-will at dusk,

             how certain

             the smell of

             her

grandmother’s old skin.

II

When we got to the 

cottage,

           the grass

           was not

            mowed.

It lay like long bleached

hair

in swirls

              as if under

              water,

flattened like beds where

lovers had lain.

I feel their ghosts as close

as

the marks

left by damp hair against

damp skin,

like corn husk where the

silk has pressed,

like rivulets of sand where              

the tide has run.

III

I shiver

walking naked to the

bathroom,

the night sky follows me

at every window,

last streaks of sun linger

on the horizon

after the storm has

passed,

the sky above

           still,

                        black

                        on

                        blue,

and the flames of light

lick out

like tongues on the rim of

the sea.

Returning, I sleep the

deep

sleep of the very young

who go

to bed

before the sun.

Kate Cheney Chappell