Too afraid to knock on the door
to those earliest memories of summer.
Fearful the current owner will have an attack
dog, or hungover husband, or RBF.
Too afraid of what the view from the low-ceilinged
upstairs dormitory might conjure.
Of white caps in the pond.
Of the miniature orange plastic ferry boat
and its multi-colored cars
that would run along the porch rail so perfectly.
Of the real diesel-fueled ferry’s horn
that would blast in passengers’ ears as it left Woods Hole.
Of the Nobska Light foghorn’s moan
and buoy bell chimes in the night wind
that would lull us to sleep.
Too afraid I won’t survive the rush pouring in.
I won’t make it to Norton Point
to witness the breach before it closes this time.
I snap one last selfie in front of a break
in the town beach fence.
The wind has downgraded itself
to a steady breeze.
A seagull hitches a ride on the 8:15 am ferry
I take from Vineyard Haven.
The sun has risen to evaporate dew
on the rose hips I always mistook
for beach plums.
Now I know for next time.