Some still remember his sermon,
a hickory that sprouted from October,
perfuming the village with its fruit,
then was brought down in fulfillment
of the prophecy, made into coffins,
a book, and one small boat
on which he left. The pier
is desolate now, and the lighthouse
no longer swings its beam over the skyline.
I want to be a heath beyond the outskirts
and spend my time cultivating it.
A cloud is suspended in the west
and squalls assail us from the south,
but no one can fathom what is now.
Could a familiar fragrance rouse them
before they’re found with their lamps unlit?
John Mullen’s poems have appeared in Boston Review and Ploughshares. He holds an MFA from Columbia University.
