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 gliding 
        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 tangled 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 glasses, 
        the geometry of far-off farmlands will appear near 

and take on shapes similar to the puzzle pieces 
        our son loves to fit together when we are at home. 

We will look back at that cluster of cottages 
        from another age still filling 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


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