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Hope at a New England Beach
That one day it is laughably
80
in April (sometimes March),
we sweep the wedge of snow
from the shady corner onto
that dried up patch of grass-
where the mouth of the sun must feast.
Peel down, pull up
Stretch, stretch
Snap, snap…
Snap!
Oh-no-fluorescent legs-a reminder
To hide eyes from a tear-ridden glare
(and to skip saving the skin.)
Cancer will get us somehow.
The first summer-day,
on a nearly-not spring calendar
bares all potential.
This day carries the beach
on its shoulders:
a prize-the heat boasting an enticing reward
for calloused flip-flop, pavement,
Show-and-tell feet.
(Look, see we never saw a blister so big!)
Flop, Flip
Slip, Skip
Jump, Flail
Under…
It's a muffling, New Hampshire
ice blanket,
the hopeful, the forgiving,
(the leather skins sizzling),
fold themselves nose-dive into, but come up
kicking an escape
every wistful time.
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