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