TEN PHOTOGRAPHS

“What’s that?” she asked me, pointing to the wall
above my desk. “A photograph, a down-
load from the Net, the house we rented near
Monhegan’s southern tip last year,” I said.
“My gosh,” she grinned, “you’ve got a hundred of
them!” “Only ten,” I told her. “Only ten.”

Impromptu workplace shrine, these scenes from fall
and winter in a place I’ll never own
a house, or visit more than once a year.
So why its grip upon my heart and head?
And how do I explain this muddled love
I feel to all the folks who’ve never been?

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I wish that I
could go.” “Ah, wishing rends the heart,” I sighed.

L.E. Wilson