End of the Season

Half price T-shirts and ice cream cones,

no more tomatoes or New York Times,

people out patching the roof, putting up

storms, the last guests gone tomorrow.

It feels so lonely when the full moon rises

over the dirt road and lights up the last

white cosmos, so lonely when smoke

from the first fires spark up to the stars

and you can hear the sea sustain

its conflict with the granite shore.

Sitting at the dock, lost on the ivory road

leading to the moon, I watch men load

the Laura B. for the day’s last run,

a steel winch hauling one more stack

of laundry bins on board. A couple kisses

on the bow, and they toss wildflowers

into the harbor, praying to return

next year. I can see them wave to me,

leaning into a moonlit notebook,

writing with the ferocity a falcon feels

when he tucks his wings and dives.