off-center, calm on the homestead porch,
and presses the palms of downcast boys.
The door behind hangs indistinct, ajar
perhaps to free their house's nervous spirit
on indecisive breeze. Her charges tilt
as if in prayer: Let us toss our Sunday hats
into the trees, hang go-to-meeting clothes; Lord,
please don't take our sister, our Mary, too.
Young Mary must have seen a western flash
through budding maple, elm and ash--
a wink from Merriman Lake. Revelation,
grasped silver-bright and sharp, is carried still
like a favorite verse, yellowed and creased
in our matriarch's purse. This force of faith,
sustained in her throughout one-hundred years,
throws light and hope to all who live in her
enduring scope. New generations come--
an endless flood of tangential blood--
to gather at her seat. So let us pray
that when she sleeps, age-rippled days reflect;
gray hair again acquires a copper glow;
her freckled skin grows taut; and mischievous
brothers return as children freed from all
portents that blind the present. So enjoined
they'll weave past brilliant trilliums arisen
from generations of moldering leaves.
Unshod, three wraiths may chase the small grey fox
down paths compressed by warrens of rabbits,
sort through the shadows for shy morels, and
find confirmation at the water's edge.
(c)Allen M Weber
published in Skipping Stones 2007
and in the anthology Peninsula Poets 2008
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