Marshfeild, VT

After a fog has fallen limp
On the wrists of a town
Saddled with time
And copper,
Blue in the smoke
Of early light

A barrier becomes apparent.
As though somehow the lazy motion
Of a weekend parade or a farmers’ market
Can weld itself around the place.

The unseen magic that I imagine
Wending in the ragweed brush.
I really did see two baby foxes
The other morning at the junk yard.

Rivers have a propensity to absorb history,
They don’t always emit it so freely
Running past an old bench I found myself
Intoxicated by the cherry blossom
And the love that was once known there.