By Stanley Plumly
On the Canadian side, we're standing far enough away
the Falls look like photography, the roar a radio.
In the real rain, so vertical it fuses with the air,
the boat below us is starting for the caves.
Everyone on deck is dressed in black, braced for weather
and crossing against the current of the river.
They seem lost in the gorge dimensions of the place,
then, in fog, in a moment, gone.
In the Chekhov story,
the lovers live in a cloud, above the sheer witness of a valley.
They call it circumstance. They look up at the open wing
of the sky, or they look down into the future.
Death is a power like any other pull of the earth.
The people in the rain gear with the cameras want to see it
from the inside, from behind, from the dark looking into the light.
They want to take its picture, give it size —
how much easier to get lost in the gradations of a large
and yellow leaf drifting its good-bye down one side of the gorge.
There is almost nothing that does not signal loneliness,
then loveliness, then something connecting all we will become.
All around us the luminous passage of the air,
the flat, wet gold of the leaves. I will never love you
more than at this moment, here in October,
the new rain rising slowly from the river.
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I did not catch up on everything on Tuesday, but I made a bit of a dent at least in the work and started the Renfaire clothes laundry. Plus I had lunch with Kay at Tara Thai, walked around Washingtonian Lake to see the geese, and did a little bit of shopping (don't get excited, it was Walgreens, not fall clothes or fun stuff).
Cheryl and I had decided that in honor of Elizabeth II surpassing Victoria's record on the throne, we should watch The Queen, so we did that in the evening. Here are some more photos from the Maryland Renaissance Festival, including a gentleman who must be one of the Calverts considering he's dressed like the Maryland flag!
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