Who is to say what a human being
should take from this world?
This as I sit in a tiny cottage
on a weekend getaway with my husband
on rolling hills, in mist. Ground
growth is green and wet,
cut stubble golden, trees
orange, yellow and tawny.
Farm buildings unpainted, weathered black.
The big lake a mile away, sapphire
at the horizon, turquoise to the sandbar,
silver and clear where waves
fold over the shore’s stones
like tattered lace curtains, blowing.
Enormous summer homes
dwarf the narrow snaking road
through trees along the lake.
They, too, are built from
and why we don’t live
smaller still than this.