Leaving the Lodge

In the weathered wood, soft and tired underfoot

Something ached.

Last night, opening the rusty file cabinet I thought I found it.

Somewhere after we stopped writing on paper,

The ghosts of caretakers past were forgotten and

Greeting the captain became a murmured prayer

Spoken by a very few.

This warn outpost remained with handwritten diaries,

Solid art and observations made while suspended

Over mud, detritus and swirling dark life.

How do I say what it meant to feel my skin differently?

To know just how to kneel to see over the square bow of a flat bottom skiff

To the horizon that reaches beyond sight,

Where a memory and shadow of a marsh, more than a channel marker,

Told me where to turn. And I consider that

This place is where sea and sky and land

Become one thing, the now.

The weather digs under my skin

And I think, as I leave, that I won’t wash my face for days

So the salt grime will stay

To remind me

Of what I want to keep.