_54. Closest Shore (2)

A vacation house on the edge
of the Atlantic Ocean stands erect
in the near-darkness after sunset.
Even in early August the season
has started to shift,
passing the apex of temperatures and visitors
brought to this seaside town.
A young man at the kitchen counter
chops mushrooms for a late dinner and,
hearing his mother make an off-hand comment
about the stove, pauses
knife hanging over the cuttingboard
while he is suddenly moved by a deep
and elegant tide of sadness
because his childhood home no longer exists.
Outside the blackness condenses
and the waves become the same void color
as the air.
A moon breaks the horizon
and the man goes back to chopping,
cutting the mushrooms finer and finer.
Dear heart, when did the darkness fall
on our salt-whitened shores?
When did the waves stop
keeping us up at night?