Martha's Vineyard Justen Ahren

Justen Ahren | Thursday, April 11 2013 - 6:16pm

The valley of the Mill Brook is only as wide as the shadow of a cloud.

But many memories have settled here. From Waskosim’s Rock I see

the leaves along the frost bottom have changed. Reflecting in the string

of ponds along North Road, they blow through another sky, below

other clouds — leaves and the likeness of past leaves. One February,

I walked along the brook listening to it murmuring under the ice.

It is still snowing in my mind. That day that winter, the flakes falling

The valley of the Mill Brook is only as wide as the shadow of a cloud.

But many memories have settled here. From Waskosim’s Rock I see

the leaves along the frost bottom have changed. Reflecting in the string

of ponds along North Road, they blow through another sky, below

other clouds — leaves and the likeness of past leaves. One February,

I walked along the brook listening to it murmuring under the ice.

It is still snowing in my mind. That day that winter, the flakes falling

I found the tendrils of your fingers

wound around mine like prayers

woven into the clothing of prayer.

and fled with you in my arms

along the highway of snakes,

concealing you from streetlights

and stars, from dogs barking in alleys.

Because nothing should speak of this

because no one would believe me—

they’d shut me away

in a room without views—