Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Shore House Mornings

-For Ash and Maeve

The low thunder rhythm is infinite,

a stalwart behemoth,

always present in cadence,

beyond the salt-crusted sliding doors.

The water throws gold

under the hard dawn sun,

an outdoor illusion of summer.


Hands pressed against the glass

create fog auras,

halos for fingers,

our ten saints at daybreak.

The brass handle is colder,

and opening the door

creates a house-resounding shudder.


Crisp air wicking off the breakers

engulfs the senses.

Sweatshirt and shorts,

shoeless on the wooden deck,

the dichotomy of warmth.


Below, the waves barrel and break

against the shore and jetties,

while the pale dune grass flitters

at the wind’s will.


The vast expanse dominates the landscape,

mocks the paltry man-made lights

of a distant northern neon peninsula.


The thought of coffee

beckons back in the warm room,

and the rooms beyond,

where both my girls

are asleep under covers

this autumn morning,

softly mumbling,

and I whisper to the witness sea,

my replies to their requests

for anything.