You are on the front porch,
facing the pond.
I am in the unheated attic,
beaneath the snow-covered roof.
When I was a boy,
I read about the lost colony,
vanished without a trace
save one clue carved in an old oak.
You tell me you like it
when I write to you in French,
language of priests and fur traders,
voyageurs who plied the frigid lakes
and paddled ashore on cobbled beaches
between pine-topped sandstone cliffs.
An eagle soars above a cliff
on sun-warmed air pushed up by winds
that gather on the plains
and cross the wave-rilled fetch.
I grew up in the South, your people,
who use the noun fetch, a span over water
crossed by winds that generate waves,
as a transitive verb, to fetch a pail of water.
There is a third sense, fetching, an adjective,
meaning charming, captivating, the effect
you have on me, ma jolie.