How incongruous that I should hear
The Jays of Valley Cottage
Here on Cape Sable Island
where I am so far removed
from My Growing Up–
or aren’t I still growing?
Here I feel I Have Arrived–
My Destiny has been laid out
on My Grandmother’s Silver Tray
on display atop
My Mother’s Mahogany Drop-leaf Table
Here in My Hawk Living Room
Sitting on My Deck
In My Red Deck Chair
I Have The Sheets on The Line
& The World in My Lap
I Can Hear The Surf
& See The Blue Horizon
Hazed Over
Like My Open Globe
Today is Hot for Nova Scotia
–I know It and You know It–
I’m not making more of It
when a humid trip to get the mail
presents The Ethereal Delight:
A Pair of American Gold Finches
splashing, dipping & shaking off
Together in a roadside puddle
Here I sit to watch
The Vertical Drizzle
outside the confines of The Portico
with The Waves
through The Rain
to watch A Cat
return
before My Naturally Bleach-Blond Daughter
emerges to ask
why I’m sitting in the rain
& If Her Perfect Make Up
is
OK
for
Poker
If I sit on The Portico
I can’t see My Laundry Line
but I can see a neighbour’s
with The Ocean in behind
the length of line is parallel
The Hanging Fabrics Flicker
They Catch My Eye
like a fire
as Wind Blows Through Them Quicker
I am Mrs Dr W Hunter Blair
I sit on My Deck
& write poetry
I dress for The Weather
& whatever else is going on
I listen to The Sheets & Towels
fluttering on the line
I listen to The Birds
The Waves
& whatever else is going on
I listen
I write
for Joanna Gilman Hyde
The Cats have lacerated
The Posts
on The Deck
but We don’t care
–It’s An Old Deck–
–no paint–
& We Love The Cats
& have no trees nearby
except for The Scrub Spruce
& That’s too far
for Half-a-Dozen Cats
Joanna Gilman Hyde 