View from the Veranda, Edgartown
This veranda is shrouded in hawthorn.
The hanging calibrachoa resists October,
Sends out tendrils and purple blossoms.
A 60ish couple strolls for the harbor holding hands.
The beetlebung on the corner blushes.
Blue buses carry silhouettes east on Main Street.
The bell in the Old Whaling Church chimes noon.
Leaves spin, gather like snow drifts on landings.
Homes are ivory Greek Revival with forest green
Shutters and awnings. Entries sport columns, gables,
Pilasters, friezes running above doorways.
White picket fences frame the block.
A silver woman in black dress
Pumps calves over red-bricked sidewalk.
The wind kicks from the north, blowing in
The meaty smell of dogwood. I sense a place
Of rocking chairs, pecan pies, an emerald lake,
Somewhere lost and long forgotten.
I live here in Edgartown, and the poet’s got it down; takes me flash forwarding into October. This is where John Belushi is buried. I wish there was more about the harbor, but we’re on that veranda so that’s cool.