HERON ISLAND, 1966

We prowl the marsh one winter afternoon:
brown-weeded pools and small islands,
mounds of snow—
a pheasant half-hidden in tall grass
eyes us cautiously.
In high branches of elms herons comb their nests.

You carry me across a pond—
shudder of young love.
(Our reticence unrehearsed.)

An aging woman now, I think of Heron Island
—hidden wilderness in late March—
mystery half-created by our shy, faltering steps,
bodies hushed—silent, but true.

Tonight
a pale marsh stills,
widens to pools of light.
Herons wake in my body—in yours—
we mirror the throbbing marsh.
Nothing is lost!

Azure cries of herons fill the air.
Slowly we become the vast great work we are.


Published in: Willow Review, 2016