from the balcony in western massachusetts
the scarlet sun sets in its favorite blue hills
unfazed by the drizzle.
this hour in the brief beginning of twilight,

what shall i do? wash my long hair
and let it dry under the last warmth
of the sun; rest my head on
my arms' cradle as the wind
blows the black clouds over?

beyond my elbow
i can see stars, distant, unclear
above scrub pines bent
and deformed
by time's relentless weight,

and where the pines meet the sky,
i see a small boat at the edge of vision--
a boy lingers on the deck, soaks in
the last of the light...

is there a boat that doesn't veer towards heaven?
is there a heaven that doesn't yearn for its boats?

the wind fingers through my wet hair.
i realize i have been sleeping.

gulls wing over the sea in my dream