Not much of a thing
Wood and crossed iron
And holes in the planks
Where the tourists can look
Out and down at the
Roaring Housatonic
And even the milquetoasts
Might imagine themselves
Rowing kayaks in the froth

The trees are not yet peaked
And yet, you knew it was October
Lichen covered boulders
Warned you away from too
Much intrepidity at the river’s edge.
Age and cranky knees
Did the rest. Ashen trails wound
Their ways along paths
That led to places only your heart
Knew in the sunlight of a restless life.

Pumpkins were arrayed on
Either side of graveled driveways;
Straw ghosts sat in rockers and with
Their manic grins forewarned you
Of the advent of Halloween. You
Pulled your jacket tighter as winds blew
Off the nearby mountains, but the sun danced
On your face and made it a joy to be alive.

You marveled once more at the bridge:
The simple agelessness of it all. The stark beauty
Of something once shrugged off as functional
And only that. Now the rushed and hurried
Come from far-off to gaze and speak in whispers
Of treasures lost and heritages ravished
And snap their pictures to be certain
That what they see is no mirage.

In town it is a simpler life.
A gorgeous golden dog licks his master’s hand.
Four chattering schoolgirls eat breakfast
At a small café and you lust for a waffle
Alpined with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry.
A scarlet cheeked man at a roadside stand seduces
You into taking a chance on a sports car, and when you tell him
You are not from this planet, he laughs and says
“It’s okay. We’ll deliver.”

And books. At bookstores and yard sales.
Real books! There are books everywhere!
People actually turning pages
And reading to themselves aloud.
At once, for an instant, you mourn
The simple life you only fleetingly wanted
To live. Then, with one last nostalgic smile
You pass the bridge again and head
Back to the bedlam of your every other day.

10/20/2011

Posted on 10/20/2011
Copyright © 2024 Ken Harnisch