From my kitchen window
I admire the cove—
old cargo ships
cemented into the mudflats,
the rusty nails and slimy wood
that have found a new home
among the clams.

I notice the big yellow W
on the side of the boat yard,
and the gleaming
yachts tied up to the dock,
and I dream.
What would life be like
with a boat as your home
and the sea as your front yard?

But the ocean is black and cold.
The waves crash on the rocks,
sending up sharp spurts
of white mist.

The summer cottages
are empty.
The summer people have returned
to their real homes.
And this—
my haven overlooking the cove—
is and always will be
home to me.