Jared Carter

Shelter

Petoskey

Next to the summerhouse, a winding way
brought water to this chamber underground—
a shelter in the earth, a quiet stay
 
against dry weather. On-site brick and clay
walled up a hidden place, entirely round,
next to the summerhouse. A winding way
 
led out beneath the garden walk. Most days
the slightest rain by evening would have found
a shelter in the earth. A quiet stay,
 
until a bucket, lowered down, conveyed
another rainfall to the rows and mounds.
Next to the summerhouse, a winding way
 
converged, near where the wooden cover's graze
across the rim now makes a hollow sound.
A shelter in the earth—a quiet stay
 
of darkness—echoes still, as if to say
this long-forgotten room remains, spellbound,
next to the summerhouse—a winding way,
a shelter in the earth. A quiet stay.

Lifted from the shallows along
         that narrow shore
Of yellow sand, where one is wrong
         sometimes, the more
 
The pattern beckons. Will it hold
         the coral’s clear
Imprint, immeasurably old,
         but rising near
 
At hand, its hexagons complete?
         Or should the waves
Hide it away, for those who seek
         on other days?

Jared Carter’s most recent book of poems, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. He lives in Indiana.