At Miner's Pond we use the past
to pull ourselves forward; rowing.
- Anne Michaels
I sit on the bank, hand on dog's domed head,
finger the copper curls blazing in the last hour of daylight.
We are waiting for release.
There are faded vines still clinging to the hillside,
breathless sun choking dust-strewn air,
motes swimming in August sky.
We are waiting for the haunting that fades
come September, chill chasing away fetid mist,
whorls like damp ghosts in flattened grasses,
leaves behind nothing so much as sap singing,
scarlet creeping through every vein,
until at last we crawl to the shore and sleep.
(previously published in A Wild Region, copyright 2008 Kate Buckley, Moon Tide Press)