Change

A pale pink house
with large windows
and small scrub pines
all alone
on a tiny rise of
solid ground
in the great salt marsh. No one
has lived there
for years
I don't know the story
although someone does.

All the channels
full and level
with the grasses
at high tide. The first time
since the new year
there is more water
than ice. Spring
forcing open
winter's fist.

That house
in the most precarious
of places
and yet
everytime I see it
I want it
to move in
scrub floors
with something
lemon-scented
windows open
for airing
lights back on
bare bulbs only
a few pots, and pans, and
a thrumming 1950's fridge
a big rug
an old couch
everyone come to gather
and drink
and laugh
music drifting over the marsh

the snowy owl
and bittern
silent in the shadows and grasses
unsure
of the new neighbors.