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Summer Cottages After Labor Day
by Kay Kidde
I slip with morning down the lane
My bike knows all the ruts.
I think that someone calls
From near the bay
Where white-gold lights are bouncing on the water.
The blue spruce my late father planted
That he let me choose
Have turned into a grove.
Montauk daisies, weeds…
I sit on the long gray bench
The pepperidge trees proclaim
Passion red again.
The shingled house dark-shuttered
Stays embedded in the land across the bay.
My cousins, who left late in summer
Seem t be around.
A seagull cries a lit white song
About my brother’s boat
He died not so long ago.
My father’s mother,
Gone for over four decades,
Is here again, behind that cottage window,
Delighted by the children,
Taking someone’s hand,
Moving with the light.
Only my father is not home
For the easy talk we never had.
Published in Oberon Magazine and North Sea Anthology.