Ithaca, NY

On the porch, we crones knit and cackle about a floppy hat.
Whitecaps crash the lake but I sit, anchored

by coffee and yarn, and contemplate staying this time.
I have a scheme. I say I’m making a tea towel, but ten rows in

I unravel it, wind it around the skein and start again.
Driving up from Troy to Ithaca, I felt a long sigh coming

but vented it in dribs and drabs, and the gods didn’t notice.
Past a slope on the left, past a ripple on the right, past a far white

silo, I let out spoonfuls of air. When we sidetracked
the uphill forest I exhaled Hello. Hello maples.

The cabin was still there but collapsed in a wreckage of
shingles and pink stuffing. I dreamt once

I roped myself to a nearby trunk in the black pit of night
while a high wind shuffled the branches.

Now I recall the body language of trees. I open my lungs
and gust, and the bark absorbs my breezes.

Off the Coast, Summer 2015

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