Peninsula Drift
It was our honeymoon
and my first time camping.
We hiked Minnehaha Trail along Nicolet Bay.
You picked a yellow daisy, tucked it behind your ear
then turned and smiled at me.
I took your picture.
Everything beamed exotic
birds, bees, waves, sand, sky, our campfire
popping sparks against the trees
ink-black sentinels standing inside the night.
Cuddled in our sleeping bags
I felt the ghosts from Blossomberg Cemetery
a river of souls and stars flowing
above our canvas lanterned cave.
I shivered and moved closer to you.
Perhaps I sensed the days to come
decades filed by the flint of time
narrowed to a single point
this day when you come to visit me
with your present wife bringing plants to share
hard-wrested from your garden.
My husband sits with you on the berm
talking vegetables, flowers, pests, rain.
He offers a hand to help you rise
but you refuse with a self-mocking laugh
grab your cane and struggle to standing.
I watch and remember that honeymoon night
when you grabbed a long stick and carried it
growling with menace into our tent to scare
the raccoons feasting on nectarines and caramel corn
masked thieves lurking everywhere
even then, in the dark.
Published in Soundings
Door County in Poetry