That Summer

Prophecy and pictures are stronger than reason,
and a person can gaze and gaze,
encountering what they only guessed at,
like happening on an unremembered lake in an
unlogged forest.
Searching maps for its name; not finding it written.

In the city of dreams, there’s an antique bookstore.
One day, browsing old picture books,
each like a relic of another life or time,
you find a photo of a lake you dimly remember,
and you can’t put it down. Your fingers shake just to
touch it. You inquire the price:
out of reach!

So you keep returning and gazing, hoping
for “a sale.” Books do go on sale, but that one
is never among them. You ask why, explain
how much you want it;
the Bookman replies everyday people ask
for this book. That’s why it’s never on sale…
The lake though, he adds, is really there.
But it’s not in the maps, never got “documented.”
Most people, he says, who inquire, actually
do know where it is, and have been there.
They just can’t remember the trail, or are too old for the journey.

If you can remember, he told me, go now,
and quit looking in picture books.
“Go, go!” he was nearly shouting.
And that’s the reason I’m on an unmarked trail,
without a map, without a guide,
but with no thought of returning home.
The moon and the stars light the way,
while the rustling forest repeats, like the bookman,
“go, go.”

Jane King