A Morning by Mark Strand

A Morning

I have carried it with me each day: that morning I took

my uncle's boat from the brown water cove

and headed for Mosher Island.

Small waves splashed against the hull

and the hollow creek of oarlock and oar

rose into the woods of black pine crusted with lichen.

I moved like a dark star, drifting over the drowned

other half of the world until, by a distant prompting,

I looked over the gunwale and saw beneath the surface

a luminous room, a light-filled grave, saw for the first time

the one clear place given to us when we are alone.