By Madison
Date: 30 September 2000

Small Boats on Travis

Near the cabin door the Riesling is spent, 
its dark bottle rolls across a soggy floor 
and knocks.  It rolls and knocks, tapping 

like a woman with a cane.  Fishing boats 
huddle below the disappearing sun, they hush 
like bees settled in their hives.  

Moon after moon, I watched the bright 
white sails.  Circling, gliding, 
dancers in a rink.  I waited, a waterbird 

with silent wings.  Fools, what headless 
fools we were.  We could have 
had these nights, been these nights, 

these groggy kisses laced with wine.  
This night. Our night, our soul.  
The lake pulls down her screen, rice paper thin 

and stipple brushed with every shade of 
red and violet-blue.  Our eyes 
can hardly know where water ends and skies begin.

We listen, wrapped in a duck-feather quilt, as 
the balm of night sweeps to its pillow where 
we lie in our boat of dreams. 




M Madison
29 sept 2000
Mansfield Dam

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