Poetry
Late August Morning at Emma's
By Sharon Auberle
Aug 25, 2008 - 7:56:46 AM

Hands clasped, softly
we walk the bed of cedar,
a new wind out of the north,
stop to watch a diving loon,
admire rocks at land's edge
awash in teal and cobalt blues,
snakes--two of them--faded brown,
an Indian paintbrush
swaying in orange.  Now
overhead the whisper of wings--
eight swans in muted flight
above the meadow
where Emma's house once stood,
sturdy rock and log foundation
vanishing slowly
into the earth.
 
Our hands grasp more tightly...
the last swan disappears...