WINTER ON ISLAND

Wicked cold day.
An afternoon walk with the dogs
down to the dock
where buffleheads, like bath toys,
teeter on waves. Distant islands
are in mirage. If only I could
sense summer–
whiff of salt, touch
of hand to warm rock or
to stand in the middle of a cloudless
aquamarine summer day
and chew on buttery steamers
cooked in a black iron pot
over a beach fire.
Some
thing any
thing.
The dogs look up at me,
wide-eyed, plead
walk us back, walk us
back to the house, walk us
back inside where the fire blazes.
They will not leave
until I do. I sigh, move back up the path,
return to leafing through photo albums
filled with aquamarine summer days.

Bonnie Thompson Enes