"Vineyard Nature "
From the porch, Nathaniel watches
a woman by a window through thick
and wavy glass. She picks bits of thread
through a cloth with her sturdy needle.
She nips a strand with her teeth.
The crisscross of the curve of letter
unravels, cardinal reds, scarlet purple.
He writes her strong and straight
like the oak outside his door. No bend
to her, she will bow, she will not break.
A foghorn interrupts his pen. He loves her
black-eyed warble, the spidery line
that resolves her mouth as he passes her
on the street. She is round as an oyster,
Her baby will be a pearl. The seed
she carries will be a speck of sand
in the fathers’ eyes. A gull shrieks and chases
her worn gray skirts. He places a period
at the end of a long sentence.
While on a winter walk, Nathaniel discovers
a white-bleached skeleton of a baby cormorant.
He notes the bones that make up its wings,
the resiliency of pursuit and flight.
Eliza won’t marry him, but he doesn’t know
that yet. He’ll only make love to her
on crisp sheets of white paper.
© 2005 Laurie Byro
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