In Every Life, Both

for Allen Hoey
Lake Winnipesaukee

Moon’s tail of light touches
the still water of the lake
and secluded shore toward
Pegasus and a broad line

of distant trees. Across
the water, lights of homes
wink on. Apassing boat
sounds its two powers:

presence and sorrow.
In every life, both.
Astripe of cloud forms
under the almost-full moon.

Spectacle Island’s loon nest
cocoons amid dense grass
and weeds; one long call
wavers over darkening water,

while the reply – distant, trailing –
stills the heart. He says,
“Look at those clouds holding
up the moon, that light,

that reflection, the boat breaking
up the lake.” The boat passes,
and the wavering path of silver
opens, then closes. Still,

there is no wind. I take
the chance this offers,
absorb the boat’s caution
and the loon’s comfort,

rise from the chair, one hand
clutching my cane, the other
the top railing post, then stand
and receive his offer of brandy,

auburn liquid gleaming
in the transfer. “Some of us
make our own light,” he says,
“here’s to light.”