when the rain lessened
we hauled our plastic Adirondack chairs in one hand
and Old Fashioneds in the other
down to the river, down to the dock, and sat there –
the dock or the river just beneath
the current lifting the water through the slats
soaking our shorts from below
while the rain continued to fall from above and we spoke
of our sons and daughters, (worrisome)
and of our elderly parents, (intractable, dear, impossible)
and our husbands and our exes,
and our could have beens and our might yet bes
until the rain tapered
and the sky was torn ragged and suddenly a lemon-yellow light
lay between the rain clouds
like the sudden tearing of a band-aid from old wounds
the scar, the healing, always there
the sunshine mirrored on the late summer water
light coming from above and below
until we climbed back up the hill – the river carrying on
without us.
Halfway North 