|Boat House, Maine|
The boat house is simple in the extreme,
empty now, except for a few beach chairs.
Facing east at the edge of the Reach,
it’s alone at the shore, far from the house.
Just a shed, a child’s drawing, an outline,
stark, stoic – a silent sentry – waiting.
It’s hard to say why it speaks to the guests;
perhaps because it stands there faithfully,
calling us down the hill to her cool shade,
to the distant drone of lobster boats,
hypnotic glide of sails through channel guides,
seagull cries, lapping tides and chanting bell.
Someone has made new doors for her this year
to guard the rusted treasures stored inside.
Old bolts and hinges washed up on the rocks
are lined up on the window sill in line,
leading guests to wonder, yet continue
saving bits within this sanctuary.
Perhaps we’ll bring a little boat next year -
to row - then to tuck safely in at night.
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