Wind tore the boat from its tenuous mooring.
It bobbed and drifted on the scrapping Sound
Transformed into a sea on that storming night.
(The last time I recall it was a sea.)
My father pulled the boat back with his bare hands
In the tumble down dark of ageless night.
The world began under such conditions.
We waited inside the tent.
We never thought he might need all our hands,
That the sea could jerk him into its loneliness.
It was almost morning when he returned,
Victorious, without a word, and rested.
He thought we never stirred.
Afraid to speak, we sat beside him and watched
The cold sea carve rivers into his sleeping face.

EASTER WITHOUT TEXT

A trick of the light, the fog
Transforms water into paper
Until we step into it, step back.
In the distant crumpled folds, two birds
Like gods perch on the breakwater,
Allowing the tide to slip
To a dark world.  Go in peace.
Two birds come to the breakwater,
Crossing the current, stepping across
The rocks, bobbing and dipping through grey
Paper haze. They will come closer;
I will see what kind they are.

My daughter shovels sand with
Oyster shells while the fog rolls over her and beyond
To swallow a grove of oaks--
Grey wafers, all, all paper--
Then turn back to us.
A trick of the light.

My daughter heads into the fog.
I turn: the birds are invisible in the fog.
Have they flown off
To the invisible trees—
Pulp in the belly of the fog?
My daughter returns for
Her shovel.
It and I remain.

SILVER BOWL     

What do I know about this silver bowl?
I know that it was once my grandmother's.
Meant to be empty: the curves I have cleaned
Roll the light like soft Summer Sunday dreams.
A silverplated basket with handles
Like tarnished silver spoons tumble flowers
Through the bowl's perforated edges to
Four etched vases .
A wedding gift?
Christmas?
Perhaps my grandmother bought it second
Hand, like so many things, because she liked
The design and kept it for something, some….
It sits on my kitchen table, gleaming,
Empty.  That's all I know.

TWO FEET.  AGAIN.