Comfort Cottage: George Town, Maine Rebecca Sylvester
I have seen my father step on a rotted board,
seen it collapse under him. A fresh pine board nailed in its place weeks later.
I have watched my grandfather tighten bolts and tug coder pins,
securing the dock to the rocks.
I have felt the ramp, rickety, steep with the low tide.
I have heard a crab scramble over a soft chip of jade pottery.
Watched Tibbits drag his skiff to the waters edge,
drawing a deep line. I have seen the moored boats gracefully twist
bows face the horizon and the rising tide blankets it all.
I have heard the water slap the rocks and watched the seaweed dance a slow
tempo. I have seen the life jackets blow in the wind held by their plastic buckles
to the splintering rail. They smell of dry salt, the ocean spray dribbled across.
I have felt the water, restless, jostle the rusted joints. I have heard the creaks
travel through my bedroom window with the constant chatter of seagulls.