Henniker

—on the Contoocook River

Back home, where afternoon fog

spills down from Twin Peaks

a mist of salsa in the air, I sat beneath

a lemon tree and dreamed of slow rivers

bending through New England, oak trees

limbs obese with summer leaves

From this stone bridge, I watch a slim leaf

tumble like a stanza through the damp

warm air, watch it light upon the surface

of old American waters.  Now—

poised upon this bridge, this volta

I crave the scent of lemon leaves

the heated howl of Hispanic horns

the fog, the peaks—even this river

Southampton Review, 2009