Vita Nuova

That first week in Maine, early June passing for October

I walked out of the tree-darkened path above the old dam site

to look over the misty river.

At that moment she too stepped out of forest shadow

and waded the ankle-high channel to the little island

where sandpipers go.

Her coat, to my western eyes, shone fiery red

Not the familiar Nevada buff—

not subtle enough.

She walked slowly onto the island and stood still as if she’d caught

wind of something. Was she aware of me?

Probably not.

Then she stepped into the main channel, just below

the rapids, and soon was up to her neck in the Penobscot

swimming across the strong flow

then hauling out on the far shore with a shake

and disappearing into the tree façade, I following behind

in my mind.

Where was she leading me

mystic doe with her indifferent inscrutable summons?

Nowhere, maybe.

Or maybe to a place of deprivation, grave

and obscure to all who’d scout it out:

crow’s call, hawk’s cry, brave

new world emptied of tangled love, commercial lusts—

homeless homes under drooping boughs, where like silenced gunshots

acorns fall in today’s gusts

dark world from which only eternal vigilance can arise

trance from which the haunted or hunted may never

return to reveal paradise.