MEDITATION AT SQUANTUM POINT
We walk out on the tongue of what was
a runway overgrown with flowered weeds.
Yellow-bellied warblers chick
as they pick at seeds in sumac fruit.
A jetliner roars overhead like a terrible god
so close to earth the ground shakes.
Silver beams slice through satin clouds.
At the water’s edge the setting sun
turns a snowy egret to red sandstone.
We would love to pass our fingertips
down the white flutings of its throat.
A break in clouds shifts light
from radiance to reflection off river water.
Back and forth the fullness
of all we love appearing, disappearing,
the faces of the friends we’ve outlived
we imagine as they tell us they have stopped
radiation: the treatment’s worse than the disease.
A sudden swirl of wind,
leaves dusted with pollen on a broken tree limb.
How sweet, marsh reeds on evening air.
We stand watching the Neponset River
empty itself into the Atlantic.
the estuary comes alive with sailboat armadas,
christened with green bottles of cold champagne.
Two photographers are glad to show us
portraits they’ve taken of nesting owls.
We have nothing digital but words to serve
as memory.
We fish for our phone when it rings.
A dear friend calls from his doctor’s office.
The verdict is in, he says.
Finish your work before the coming dark.
A white crane dips its beak in water
where rainbow spots of gasoline float.
Is it too late to begin?