There are only so many solitudes.
Wine with cherry blossoms
in the center.
The creak of timbers in a roof.
My father, as I see him,
lost in the swells of Sandusky Bay.
What did he see?
What was he seeing?
Sails he sailed
with no harbor for his thoughts.
A dark recessional.
Solitudes encircle me like woods
circling a meadow,
a warbler trilling above its silence.
Where is the bric-a-brac of meaning?
Notes in books?
Dried flowers?
Locks of hair?
They bring their solitude with them.
Chin on knees.
Surf sounding.
Terns calling.
The sky for company.