Member Poem

Autumn in New England, 2059

November sixth at Hammonasset strand,
and people in the ocean. Even I,
who hate cold water, swim. The tufted sky,
as hazy as a day in August, sand
and sea and sun, the sound of the surf breaking,
spry seabirds scavenging, the butterflies
and bodies baking, and the gulls’ harsh cries
seem distant as the stars from autumn-raking,
which soon will happen on suburban lawns
as surely as the wind produces waves,
as surely as birds migrate and the dawns
grow colder and the bats seek out cool caves.
Yet here I sit now, basking on a beach
and munching, not an apple, but a peach.

(Appeared in The Rotary Dial)