The Key
by Jane Hirshfield

Morning unlocks the lake
as a woman with many keys might
come to open a house
where others are sleeping.
Enjoying the quiet possession.
Wiping the shelves of the mountain
with a lemony rag until they catch.
It is not hers. Those who live
there will claim it with raised voices,
with the closet doors’ casual banging.
But for now, a single rowboat
drifts on the silvery water.
The oars are banked, the one sound
drips from the blades and widens
toward the enormous, dark-held shore.
There, the house is dreaming:
a red barrette on a wooden dresser,
somehow important.

leaf leaf
© Jeff Kopito

I read this…kept thinking of William Carlos Williams’ The Red Wheelbarrow

[h/t to The Writer’s Almanac for the lead in to the poem…]

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