In the early morning
And even later, still,
The lake’s surface is
Full, an inverted
Seamless sky.

It is easy to rest here,
To feel no pull to move
Or to act. Instead,
I watch purple martins
Swoop, dip, nearly collide.

Nearby, in a half-completed
Project, you stop and look to me,
Lifting your hand
In reverence to this new pull
Neither of us understands.

Weeks later, I will remember
This day as a prayer,
A single offering:
Windless sky on water,
Winged salutations, your eyes.

In 1973,
My father used a favorite shucking knife,
Its short blade loose in the wooden shaft,
To pry open rocklike oysters.

He passed them to us, his heirs
To the iced tea spoons, the fondue ***,
The escargot shells, the silver martini shaker,
And we would first check them for pearls

And then hold them, like religion,
Above our mouths,
Tip our heads back,
And let them slide over our tongues.

Yesterday, at Little Pond,
As March thawed the glassthin ice,
I startled at the cracking,
Welcomed the blade, sang the amen.

There is a rhythm between us:
Sometimes a quiet rise and fall
Of a tide unseen, unheard
A coupling of river and shore,
Sometimes the glacial beat
Of a spring thaw pounding through
Miles and years, demanding notice.

Yesterday I felt fortune crest in me
And drew it into safe still frames
(Of sturdy forest cairns,
Your voice in whispers and song,
Sunlight, word games, chocolate,
My hand on your back)
One day, abundant, spilling over.

This time, only my second,
We were nearly alone
Descending gravely
Into a reflection of names
And selves.

(I admit that sometimes
I prefer to walk behind you
In deference –  this time, though,
It was to watch your shoulders
Heave forward, your neck tighten,
As you sunk into that space
Only you know.)

We stopped twice:
First to let the loudly curious girl
Behind us pass, our careful gaits
No match for her rapid conquering
War memorial check-off pace,

Then, as we rose back into
The green morning, you brushed
Your right hand as a farewell
Across the polished ebony
And whispered.

Nearby, an ancient couple
Posed with the Three Servicemen,
The two chattering in Vietnamese
And grinning for each other,
The trio of newly uniformed soldiers
Staring off camera at some old atrocity.

And I, offering with pointing fingers
And waving hands and slow English
To take one photo of all of them,
Together, just barely released the shutter
Before the sorrow and loss and unknowing
Came into focus, and I returned to you,
In first tears.