Cities burn behind us; the lake glitters.
A tall loudspeaker is announcing prizes;
Another, by the lake, the times of cruises.
Childhood, once vast with terrors and surprises,
Is fading to a landscape deep with distance— And always the sad piano in the distance,
Faintly in the distance, a ghostly tinkling (O indecipherable blurred harmonies) Or some far horn repeating over water Its high lost note, cut loose from all harmonies.
At such times, wakeful, a child will dream the world,
And this is the world we run to from the world.
Or the two worlds come together and are one On dark, sweet afternoons of storm and of rain,
And stereopticons brought out and dusted,
Stacks of old Geographics, or, through the rain,
A mad wet dash to the local movie palace And the shriek, perhaps, of Kane’s white cockatoo. (Would this have been summer, 1942?) By June the city always seems neurotic.
But lakes are good all summer for reflection,
And ours is famed among painters for its blues,
Yet not entirely sad, upon reflection.
Why sad at all?
Is their wish so unique— To anthropomorphize the inanimate With a love that masquerades as pure technique?
O art and the child were innocent together!
But landscapes grow abstract, like aging parents.
Soon now the war will shutter the grand hotels,
And we, when we come back, will come as parents.
There are no lanterns now strung between pines— Only, like history, the stark bare northern pines.
And after a time the lakefront disappears Into the stubborn verses of its exiles Or a few gifted sketches of old piers.
It rains perhaps on the other side of the heart;
Then we remember, whether we would or no. —Nostalgia comes with the smell of rain, you know.
