Here we are nothing, twisted scrub oak,
deformed trees, outcrops of rock ground to glass
by the stone-growl of the sea. Nothing
but voices of water and air.
And here in nothing I love you. Here,
in nothing I take you. Here in the danger
of too much barren ground I reach for you
remembering who is buried, who remains.
In the solitude of my body stars graze
like cattle foraging in the absence of grain.
Lee H. McCormack
A resident of the dank and moldy primal forests of West Tisbury for 32 years, Lee H. McCormack recently received the title of Martha’s Vineyard’s first Poet Laureate.