by Christine Adams Beckett
The clapboards of the ancient boathouse
Separated at the corners, revealing rusted
And bent nails with rectangular shanks.
The foundation, cracked and in need of repair,
Held the aging structure precariously steadfast,
Offering welcome to the runabouts
Of the last century into its own hull.
The windows waved, burled and
Undulating, rippling the image of
What lay inside – streaks of
Muted color and indistinct forms.
A glass blower, now long since
Gone, forming nostalgic eyes
Which, when opened with love,
Would soften light that would stream in
From an outside world.
I am that outside world,
Curious about a structure that
Over decades, became a mere aspect
To the horizontal landscape.
I paddled my kayak through its
Open portal, expecting to find
A 1930s three-horsepower
Engine, gooey with stale oil,
A wooden-hulled runabout
With a leak and broken seat boards,
A moldy and torn star-spangled banner.
Instead, I find a young couple, folded
Into a sleeping bag like twin butterfly
Lovers in a cocoon
Startled awake, sitting up in fear,
Breaking their loving spoonful
Of an embrace. Hastily I offer
Apologies, paddling backward
To open and clear waterscape
That is decipherable and mine,
Having stumbled into a memory
That I’d swear was my own.