Nancy: Every day the bay fills, empties, fills again, rises 18-20 feet, falls; the world is in constant motion, eagles, seabirds, sky. Our appetites are astounding.
Sandwich Poem For John And Sarah
Mustards with and without turmeric,
grainy, smooth, gingered,
pale and hot, their
spoons akimbo in the jars,
and the cheeses, wedge, round,
nutty, smoked, smooth, but
none of these so bright as the
ham, the slices of tomato,
brilliant tomato, all piled on
the black iron of the stove
because we were greedy for food
back from the thickets and stones
of Race Point, the low tide
saltmarsh tang, the eagle, the arm
of land thrust into the bay, into the
cold waters spun off from Labrador
. . .
Wasn’t it a fine day, to walk lazily
under a sundog sky?
Alan: For a few years in the early ‘90s, a woodworker in our area produced beautiful, five-foot long, Victorian-inspired walking sticks. I still use mine often.
We Compare Equipment
Unlike Ryokan’s bark-stripped branch,
this staff’s got breeding:
perfectly turned, steel-tipped,
fitting the hand, and balanced.
A joy to stride with,
dotting the path in perfect
Will I feel as he did,
some day, an old man,
seeing it hanging from the nail
“Sandwich Poem For John And Sarah” first appeared as “Sandwich Poem” in Fencing Wildness (Slow Dancer Press, 1999).