Outdoors, like a false morning,
Fog washes the pine trees. It
Shoulders against the windows,
Spreading across their surface
On its way upward. In this
Moment between sleep and thought
This holding back, I can hear
The fog start to rise, the slow
Memory of an ocean,
And I, like a ship, begin
To stir, to lurch in its swell,
And to move outward, beyond
The steel jetty, the lighthouse,
The red-flagged channel buoys,
--Beyond, at last, sleep even--
Into a deeper water,
Pale, oracular, its waves
Motionless, seagulls absent.
~ Charles Wright
art by andrew wyeth
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