Two Poems
Barbara Loots
Closing the Cottage
We board the windows, cap the chimney, clean
the cupboards, bring the empty feeders in,
take final looks at the autumnal scene
before the shudders coming on begin.
A chilly sunlight dapples the afternoon
as we wrap up another island year.
We speak of how we came again in June,
anticipation not untinged with fear
of changes. But the cottage holds our place,
a bookmark in the stories of our lives
we can return to like a saving grace
of timelessness. Its history survives.
Yet these last tasks foreshadow what we grieve:
the only place we never have to leave.
- - -
Barbara’s notes: “The cottage in Ontario was built in 1946 by my husband’s father, driving up from Ohio every summer. Still ‘off grid’ (with some modern conveniences like a propane fridge) the cottage is a shrine to generations of family: old books and magazines, remainders of wedding china, a crank-up Victrola, remnants of discarded rugs. It’s a long story I’m happy to be part of now.”
- - -
November
Autumn leaves sing in a higher pitch,
going from a hush to a hiss.
So soon the lullaby of summer ends
in a last, cold kiss.
- - -
Barbara’s notes: “Autumn is my favorite season. I suppose one reason is the poetic contemplation of impermanence.”
- - -
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