Harvey
Taylor


harveytaylor.net

 
Sunrise, Over The Ocean
What if you’d stayed overnight in a friend’s barn,
one that they’d taken down from a nearby farm, and rebuilt,
turning it into a woodworking-and-sculpture studio,
art gallery, goose dormitory, and guest room?

And what if you admired the life-sized rusted steel silhouettes of
wolves and buffalo the next morning, the very ones
you’d taken photos of, with your father included,
several years earlier, when you brought him for a visit?

What if you then dropped by to see a poet neighbor,
who showed you photos of her winter sojourn on the Florida coast,
classic sunrise-over-the-ocean scenes?

And what if you then drove an hour through a heavy rain
to look in on your mom, who’d put the framed photograph of
your father and a buffalo sculpture on the kitchen table,
just put it there, that morning, minutes before you arrived,
years after you’d given it to your dad, now passed on?

Then, what if, as you stood there, amazed by this eerie co-incidence,
your mother said, “Come here, I have something to show you,”
from the living room, where she sat with the photo album of
her trip to Florida with Dad, not long before he died,
the album open at several snapshots of sunrise, over the ocean?