In twin chairs by the lakeside tonight
we’ve watched day’s last light
spread like a bright blush over treetops
past the point where cabins stand
abandoned, sealed against winter.
In the middle distance the island floats,
fading. There alone the wild blueberries
hang like unmarked globes over water
separating shore from shore.
Why they grow there but not here
puzzles, like love or the coming bereavements
of autumn, or rumors of empty, drifting skiffs.
For now at least the island remains
part and not part of the unknowing night
as we are to each other
island and mainland, ship and shore,
a familiar place; a mystery.