When, as it occasionally does, the conversation
comes ‘round to actually living on the island
my friend DW reminds me that there is something to be said for the yearning.
The last hours of this autumn’s visit upon us,
we clear the great room to sweep out the big dog hairs
and the sand brushed from bare piggies.
Leaving the last mug of tea to cool,
I prop the screen door with the vase of fading flowers left by Lynn and Ellen.
The last of the Empire apples, picked in the local orchard
on the day before we left Pennsylvania,
sit in the white bowl
ready to be taken down to the meadow and laid on the stone wall
for the deer who gather each night in the marsh’s gloaming.
A breeze has been blowing up off the ocean all morning.
Leaning on the broom handle,
I watch the curtain from across the room in the kitchen doorway.
Gossamer thin, it gathers and reaches with each puff through the open door.
Outside the tiny paper tip of the tea bag strains against a counter current.
The wind appears to turn the corner.
Offering to help with the cleaning.
Or begging us to stay.