A foggy morning 
on the Atlantic of deep blue almost black
waves, white caps tangled, undone
a mist rocks the boat, silence, a calm–
the ferry leaving Star Island,
across front Appledore, where a salon existed,
hosted by Celia Thaxter–painter, poet, gardener–
hollyhocks reached the sky, poppies red
sway and bend in Childe Hassam brush strokes–
an American impressionist held hostage now in art museums.
We all know Celia’s friends–Thoreau, Emerson, et al–men–
of course!

I leave thinking about the precise patterns
she painted onto a canvass of delicate white china:
yellow and purple flowers, swirling around vines,
butterflies, their bright sunshine wings stopping to rest 
upon a teacup’s handle, her recollections of life 
far from the mainland, sketches, insights.

swoop of gulls, the lighthouse beacon, the wind 
picks up,  low tide, high tide, starfish,
ochre seed weed, orange lichens cling to boulders,
steady clash of wind weather–

a garden returning year after year after year