BELCHERTOWN

I make small talk with a booth attendant.
In the country they're pleasant for a change
Saying Hi! to you and they look you in the eye.
Foliage here is not quite peak and a layer of fog
Lies just off the ridge where the moisture
And temperature conditions are right for it.

I get the idea to take the exit at Northhampton
On a spur of the moment and drop in on them.
Stopping for gas we call ahead. She gets my voice right away
Though we never met and he's surprised to hear from me.
His directions on a state highway take us downtown
Through some bad neighborhoods with difficult turns.

We find them in a rented place on one of those ancient roads
That run out to the country from the coast.
We pass a row of tacky development houses on new macadam
Before it narrows down to just dirt great maples and oak
We catch the number and pull in on a plain drive.
The front boards and trim are authentic and worn.

He comes down from the second story on outside stairs.
Tall with a soft smile a beard and a paunch
I step up to greet him with a fatherly hug.
A tavern in the old days for travellers to Amherst
The ridge pole sags between the rafters.
Right behind him she's slight and pretty and we shake.
     
We sit around the kitchen table and he gets up to take a loaf
From the high tech baking machine--a wedding present.
An African mask hangs by the door and the Sunday paper is open.
Walls are fresh white with art school exercises on them
In different mediums and a variety of styles.
Barefoot in jeans she exhibits at a Boston gallery. 

They're expecting friends and can't join us for lunch.
I speak about the appetite for celebrities in our culture
And the MOMA show where thick crowds wait for just
A quick look at the childlike scribbles of the old aristocrat.
He suggests a tour of their rooms and we get
To see the wide planks and hand hewn beams.

A water geologist his home office has a computer and a table
Where he's arranging slides for a technical presentation.
She plays the oriental gong and we listen while she stands
Before the big brass sheet feeling the vibrations.
During a long section the rhythm is faint as a heartbeat
And our spirits submit to a deep sense of relaxation.

Later the energies build again and overflow into one another.
I compare it to the morning and evening music of the sitar
Contrasting fugitive experiences like this with formal beliefs.
Thinking of leaving he suggests an easy route to get us back
And makes a detailed sketch of the roads and intersections.
Saying goodbye at the car she pulls me over for a kiss.

We follow his squiggle by the pick-ur-own apple farm
The nearby plots dotted with pumpkins and upscale cars.
On the Northway past Albany hills are on fire
And the sap sinks down again for a season of rest.
Where the tissue first dries maple is true red and oak orange.
Young birch and aspen yellow all at once.

For some it's the end of their day as unique individuals.
In the open places purple aster like dried bouquets
Leave only their seed behind for a next flowering.
On the way home we're happy the visit worked out.
Fields are mowed clean and fence lines are a jumble of color.
We see right through to the grass under the sumac.

Jay NY 9/25/94