The Bean House

by John Koethe

. . . humming in the summer haze.

Diane christened it the Bean House,

Since everything in it came straight from an

L.L. Bean Home catalog. It looks out upon two

Meadows separated by a stand of trees, and at night,

When the heat begins to dissipate and the stars

Become visible in the uncontaminated sky,

I like to sit here on the deck, listening to the music

Wafting from the inside through the sliding patio doors,

Listening to the music in my head. It's what I do:

The days go by, the days remain the same, dwindling

Down to a precious few as I try to write my name

In the book of passing days, the book of water. Some

Days I go fishing, usually unsuccessfully, casting

Gently across a small stream that flows along beneath

Some overhanging trees or through a field of cows.

Call it late bucolic: this morning I awoke to rain

And a late spring chill, with water dripping from the

Eaves, the apple trees, the pergola down the hill.

No fishing today, as I await the summation

Of my interrupted eclogue, waiting on the rain

And rhythms of the world for the music to resume,

As indeed it does: all things end eventually,

No matter how permanent they seem, no matter how

Desperately you want them to remain. And now the sun

Comes out once more, and life becomes sweet again,

Sweet and familiar, on the verge of summer.


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