107 Water Street
By Henri Cole
“small town” is
Largely a state of mind...
—James Merrill, “The Changing Light at Sandover”
All the sailboats in the harbor
face North. I can see twenty-four
from your study window.
Overhead, large white birds fly around
in the September glow.
The sky is baby blue without a single cloud.
The house at 25 Main Street finally sold.
Isn’t that where Venture Smith lived?
He was the son of a prince, who purchased
his freedom. History cannot be unlived.
Chez Perenyi, I visited David’s ashes
under a chestnut where edible mushrooms,
Phallus ravenelii, now grow, and Libby,
a rescue dog from Tennessee,
nuzzled me and licked my lashes.
At the Farmers’ Market, the cheesemonger
couldn’t stop talking. A young man at Nana’s bakery
gave me a brioche and smiled kindly.
And Mrs. Purity, of Purity Farm (I love her peaches),
stepped right out of a small Dutch painting.
All night I hear the clinking halyard lines.
Before dawn, I buy a coffee at Tom’s Newsstand,
then sit with your big Petit Larousse, La Fontaine,
and my ardor. September is a time to feel the light,
write, scratch out, write, nap, walk, begin again.
I am too afraid of jellyfish to swim
with Jonathan out to the breakwater;
instead, I sit with Penny at her long
dining table and eat beef bourguignon.
You make me feel I almost belong.
