Tonight, my wife and I will arrive again at that inn
we first visited a decade
ago. Nestled into a high rise
beside the river, its balconies stretch out, as if
over the slow-flowing waters
below, and in morning
their shadows will reach across to the other shore
like black boxes stacked
on an Ad Reinhardt abstract.
We will walk a path that parts the garden flowers,
so orderly arranged with
constellations of violet
and pink blossoms separated from others of red
and yellow. We will
speak once more of that week
now long gone and about those late afternoons
when we had slept with
legs in a hammock
sagging under the twisting limbs of shade trees.
We will seek out those same
old signposts along
an upper trail which yet creases the hillside, leads
to that distant peak with
its white curve of waterfall
jutting just above us. Through our field
the geometry of far-off
farmlands will appear near
and take on shapes similar to the puzzle pieces
our son loves to fit
when we are at home.
We will look back at that cluster of cottages
from another age still
the village in the valley,
and of course, they'll also seem so much closer.
And then we will pretend
we are ten years younger.
[ First appeared in Clackamas Literary Review]