Greenough’s Pond
The swirling in the water stone remains, old glacier, words lost when the others came, I wade into the water to touch what he had touched, my body in the circle of his house. Wooden signs warn that I am trespassing on owned land, & my mother is afraid to cross the signs, but they are a shifting dream of borders, the image dependent on the steps you take. This is the home he chose after everyone had died. I sink my hand in water and touch the walls of rock and yellow sand, pines that line the road so that everything is entrance.