Acadia, Nocturnal

The fog is shrouding tamarack

and a flawless black sky

as frogs trill from turbid pond water,

but she doesn’t know.


She emerges from our room only to eat

and ask whether Andromeda chose to show

over Cadillac Mountain

or if Venus sailed down the Penobscot

out into the Atlantic. I avert my eyes

from her withered outline and pretend

I can’t hear her.


Mornings, I wake to shade

cast broadside by conifers that gather twilight

in the long afternoons

as she sleeps, hours before the sun has gone,

while I go walking on Morgan Bay Road.

Yet dusk always comes.


So I lower my gaze,

linger under lampposts in denial

of the million suns

spinning out like streams of spores


from toadstools on the forest bottom,

then return to her labored wheezing.


I’m told we have the darkest skies

this side of the continent

and that one can see galaxies

twenty million light years far.


But now the fog is shrouding my eyes

as a breeze slips from the bay,

and she is sleeping


in a halo of silver locks.

A frog splashes into water.