Islands will take your best laid plans

and wreck them

with weather that cancels your flights, one by one,

leaving piles of gear camping in the corner,

next to your sons’ fishing poles bereft of Shuyak silvers,

Leaving you to your printed lists, checked and circled, your maps and

tidy rectangles of lasagna frozen in tinfoil portions

Who to believe? The Windy app with its wild magenta and mustard swirls?

Or the pilot who promises

he will pick you up, eventually

What if the coffee runs out?

You were going to build fires in a cabin woodstove,

eat chocolate and write about old trees

If only there wasn’t Monday and school days and the dog sitter

You call it all off and drive to an empty beach

that faces another island you’ll never visit, and being there

makes you think of paths you won’t choose. Or will.

Reminds you that islands will also take

our grief and rage and loneliness, all of it.

Take your pick

send your sorrows down a cold clear creek

fling them like wind through spruce 

slip them into waves following waves until the weight fades

and pales like a storm rinsed sky