a bronze nymph pouring water from
a watering can, was nicely patinated
but dry. Morning glories twined
around her thighs and waist,
formed a modest vegetable
bodice over her pale green breasts.
The pool was still blue
on sunny days, clouds reflecting
like cotton puffs between
the lily pads and cat tails.
Large-mouth bass patrolled
the edges hunting for incautious
frogs and the occasional duckling.
The travelers who found their
way to the former mountain resort
spread their own towels and blankets
on the bare frames of ancient
chaise lounges. Children still
shrieked and splashed each other, but
there were no poolside waitresses
bearing trays of Cokes and margaritas.
Some of the cabins around the perimeter
were abandoned, doorless
and windowless, inhabited by foxes
and raccoons. Others had been reclaimed
by whoever took a break from their wandering
for a season or a year. A few had
settled for good.
And it was good. A vegetable garden
where the lawn had formerly lain,
chickens and fruit trees, a few goats.
Home for some, a respite for those
who paused on their journeys
to water their horses or recharge
their electric jalopies or take a dip
in the cool blue waters of the resort
formerly known as the Fontainebleau.
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