Autumn in New England, 2059

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.

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(First published in The Rotary Dial)