Boathouse

The best part was, after heading away from the pond and up the rocky steps, along the boardwalk next to a lichen covered ledge with thin rivulets of water running down it, stopping to admire the canopy of striped maple leaves above, that's when the loon's thin drawn out call came drifting up from the pond below, just like the fog itself.


If I could keep my innermost Me
Fearless, aloof and free
Of the least breath of love or hate,
And not disconsolate
At the sick load of sorrow laid on men;
If I could keep a sanctuary there
Free even of prayer,
If I could do this, then,
With quiet candor as I grew more wise
I could look even at God with grave forgiving eyes.


The Sanctuary, by Sara Teasdale