The Island In Summer

The way the bedroom door catches
so I have to shoulder it open
in the morning.

The way the fog hides the lobster buoys

littering the cove and makes
a small cup of the world.

The way the osprey pleats the air
on her dive and cuts the fish
so cleanly from the water.

The way the water sluices over rocks,
slicking a smooth black skin
upon the sea.

The way the knotted wrack stands, swaying
in the tide, like a choir singing
dark green hallelujahs.

The way you sit reading in the wicker chair
all afternoon, while sailboats
stitch water to the sky.

The way you look at me across the table,
and raise your empty glass to catch
the last clear drops of sun.

The Mount

I've been a fan of Edith Wharton's fiction for nearly fifty years. Last week I finally had the opportunity to visit The Mount, the Berkshire estate she designed and built in 1902. The weather was hot and humid, but the gracious peace of the grounds and the cleanly elegant lines of the house, inside and out, made me forget the heat.

The library's bookshelves are set into the walls and house Wharton's original collection of books.