The Afterlife

To spin billows of dust over dark spruce,
Over bright birch candles, to startle ravens
From road kill and send them croaking
Into caverns of pine, to catch glittering
Flashes of lakeshine through the trees,
To shimmy to a halt, to pile out between
Gravel and mailbox (its red flag glinting),
To find the house looming above you,
Its blue gaze sweeping over your head
And up the bay—that was to arrive as a guest.

To arrive as family—that meant to paddle in
From the lake, to nestle among sparks
Of sunfire on the wavelets, to thread
The reeds, to ease aside the mallards,
To grind the bow softly onto the sand,
To climb with your stringer up the lawn
And into the basement before climbing
The wooden steps to dinner and glory.

But to arrive and find the house missing,
Weeds and scrub where it used to stand
—That is to arrive as a ghost—
To become the footsteps heard in the attic,
To rattle the cupboard dishes in the night,
To make the drowsy cat leap up
Arching her back and hissing at vacancy.

Plainsongs. (27)2: 7.