Labor Day

Labor day already.

We went back

to Brookline from Marshfield,

where we summered.

With the ocean at the bottom

of the street, two streets over.

We walked barefoot down the asphalt

and the pebbled street, and over

the rocks above the sandy beach.

Our feet toughened, calloused,

for walking all summer long unshod.

We took excursions

to the penny candy store in Brant Rock

or the horse farm (with two or three horses

in an arid field) at ocean street’s end.

Searching out blueberries and blackberries,

to gift our mother with.

Only our shirts rolled up

to carry them.

(Better not rob the

strawberry patch in

old man Allen’s yard,

for him seeing all

he would be out with his shotgun

to chase away us munchkins.

The word was out on that.)

Stopping to rest, in our travels

on the old stone steps

in front of the house

hidden behind overgrown

brush and trees.

Or on a tree branch, hanging low

in the wooded ground

bordering the yards of

vast Victorian cottages.

Walking the sea wall from

whence it started, off the beach

or from the road.

Later we gathered sea moss

for aunt Bridie to wizard-like make

her famous carrageen pudding!

we rode bikes down hilly lanes.

Went down to the marsh

we trekked through to swim in the river,

with it’s strong currents or placidity.

We tromped through shaded woods,

and sunny back yards,

(running over vain lawns),

the grass yielding like soft moss

under our feet.

yes, time let us be

what we wanted to be.

Pirates and princes, unicorns,

Joan of arc, lions in cages,

batman and robin, riders

and runners of rickshaws,

or mermaids all the day long until

the sun was sinking towards the sea,

and our hands and feet were wrinkled deep.


Morning Home

I sit with my coffee.

It is still dark outside, quiet.

My cat is sitting on the cupboard

licking his leg.

looking up, in time.


Outside silhouettes of branches


the sky –

into dark gaps, like

fissures on a frozen lake.


A bird sings a few short notes.


and then, again.

The cat tilts his head up.

then returns to pruning.


It takes it’s time,

the light,

to permeate the day.


I look over at the


second-hand sled

I picked up in a second-hand store,

leaning against the island,

bringing home home.

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