Then and Now

Carolyne Chandler-Krull



Then and Now

I’ve returned from taking too much out of loud, cramped streets,
bricked over waterways, and closed up possibilities.

To recover here where there are spaces between
that even when pried open and whispered into remain quiet.

Now there is a widower along the roadside
sitting with his loss all day and from now on,
his overused baskets, weathered farm stand and
too many melons left ungathered in the field.

Down the road a fishing boat pulled out for sale is set on a ramp;
Alone far from shore, age and experience painted over with white.

If the old trawler, out on the bay, was to dip into and over pristine crests of cold,
once again reveling in its hull’s rugged protection;
and I captained, protected behind the glass wrappings, perched above the deck,
not wishing through months, Friday by Friday, just facing Tuesday and Thursday.

Other vessels are lined up and down floating docks, pilings sunk deep;
buoyant out in the oppressive low marsh smell.

This retreat, to a former mill town, linked to other fishing villages that spread out along the river,
has not been complete, the drive back and forth to the city connects now and then,
the pull of distances that sets me apart with expanses of highway,
is overtaken by the reflected light, on dimpled water.