There was some dude
harvesting seaweed
from the jetty rocks at low tide.

There were families from MA & CT,
renting cedar shake cottages up the street.
There were kids from Wells
low-keying beers in the sun.

There were six inch waves
unzipping themselves down the beach.

There were gulls and lobster boats
pointing down the river.

There was noise and life.

There was no winter.
There was no ice hugging the jetty,
challenging the saltwater for territory,
sheets calving into the white wakes.

There was no night,
no need for headlights past my high school home,
no loneliness of a grey beach

scarce beside pipers
nor silence,
nor wind of the Maine I know and recall.

No mother,
whom I'd come to see off
who knew winter
and gulped it down
where the man harvests seaweed.