Small gold honeybees
on blossoms
of tough stemmed
New England ivy.
Nectar scarce,
they needle
tiny blooms, trace
on round bobbins
their white thread,
as Brussels women
in caps, intent over linen
webs draw sweet lace
patterned by September.
Late in the day,
the white butterfly
appears, brushes
the flowers
with random joy.

Look down to Buzzard’s Bay

Small boats cross offshore, their sails slip
in and out of view from wind scoured trees
below the hill where low tide worries at the beach
and a boulder shoulders the dock railing.

Cat’s paw ripples patch the sea, a rising wind
to catch and play the orange sail heading out
from the harbor where masts and hulls ride
mirror flash points through the oaks behind us.

A sea hawk dives, lifts, fish in his talons
rides back in over this house, this nest
that launches fledglings, strengthens
their span of flight, whose porch recalls

high watches down the coast…Gloucester,
Monheghan, Halifax, further down East
wherever island people built to overlook
the sea, remember, map a journey.