Some mornings, I almost
get through fastening
my wristwatch before
I remember he is gone. 

I pad across our
lush orientals to the
window: grass brilliant
as he liked it and then,
behind, the towering

Here, on this island,
I live amongst his
things — snapshots
from safaris in gilded
frames, Japanese
silk fans, medals
from presidents. 
I consider leaving,
joining life
on the mainland of
gabbing people 
and supermarkets. 
But day after day,
I don’t — choosing instead
this foggy Western
silo, his shirts
still crisp in the closet.

Growing Up

Here’s the thing — you don’t
want to do this, ever. 
Keep your myths close
and your parents

This stuff of aging
happens in darkening
rooms, spaces overfull
with distant relatives and
peeling photo albums.

When you get home,
your bath feels too 
scalding, so you
let it drain slowly,
silently, and 
then sit in
the empty tub.


Perched on the edge of the land
grown thick with pine
and tidal pools of sand,

there was, reaching skyward, a fine
old hotel, with turn-of-the-century
turrets and stately lines.

On the porch: wicker chairs for ladies
to retire in the hot afternoons
spent by the unrelenting sea.

Who could have known that soon
in a Northeastern squall
this castle would tip past the dunes

and make it’s elegant, and permanent, fall?



The prompt was to write a poem in terza rima; here is my attempt.