We leave our talk about the madness of men
As we enter the red marker at Cape May Point.
Past algae-speckled marshes, and wildflowers,
Stands of redcedar, persimmon and black gum trees.

In the clustered woods, the air is still.
July sunlight floods the day, and memories return
Of past times spent here. You point to the old lighthouse—
Red and white against a white sky.

We recall where we crouched to view the saw-whet owl,
Big-eyed, in a shadowy thicket, staring back at us.
The white pine grove where the painted bunting sang his song.
We walk a bit slower now, speak about the passage of time.

The history that brought us here, now over fifteen years ago.
It is another world within our own, one we are glad to enter into.
But perhaps it is truer that it enters into us—
A mirror where we begin to see ourselves more clearly.

We breathe in our good fortune, breathe out gratitude.
Stand and smile at the insistent “tea-kettle” call of the Carolina wren.
The acrobatic flight of purple martins above the green-gray ponds.
You turn to me, and say: this is it, this is It.

Ray Cicetti’s poems have been published in a variety of journals including Tiferet, The Stillwater Review, The Galway Review and The Metaworker. He has been a featured reader in various reading series. Ray is a psychotherapist and Zen teacher. He lives with his wife Carolyn in northern New Jersey.