Mary Herrington-Perry: On Lakeview Point

It's nearly spring.
Again the north-bound gulls
dip and feast,
eddy with the hawks
who've come to re-mark
their territory.
In his Christmas boat,
a fisherman casts,
adjusts, and casts,
a blind man re-measuring
his favorite room.
Up here, the oaks chatter
with last year's teeth.
Wolf spiders hunt old lairs.
I settle into my old depression
among the lichens on the hill.

Nothing about the season is new:
the greening was begun months ago,
the buds in place, the energy stored.
The peepers on the bayou's edge
sing their parents' songs.
What have I brought
but the usual feast ---
fruit, cheese, the latest wound.

This lovers' graveyard
bears nothing but despair.
Trillium is squashed underfoot,
may apples wither and sink,
false solomon's seal races
its own stalk and never wins.
Under which leaves,
within what rotted log
do old lovers lie,
their black skeletons
like missed morels?

The rain will come.
The fleshy dead will dance
around me on this hill.
Those I cast into the lake
the gulls will snatch
and bring with them next year.
The other bones are mine.
With what can I anoint them
if not hope?