There are always linens to fold
here, and sweeping,
and the sand never really pulls up from the carpet.
The new owners hung curtains
over our bare windows
and then abandoned the place.
Blue jays caw in the early morning,
wondering where we have gone.
Listen to them;
brush the sand from your feet.

The woods still gives off that scent we knew,
even down by the old junk pile,
and the driveway’s two grooves have
disappeared under dune grass.
The tiger lilies you planted
manage to find the sun
in the clearing.
Listen to the blue jays caw;
drink in the forest air.

How has this happened —
time takes its own turns,
hiding even the boldest oak, no less
its most tender shoot
(so lonely when we are not there)?
Perhaps it is wiser to let time
have its way. Perhaps.
Come, now, listen to the blue jays caw:
tend this soft space.

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