This wide cove on the sea
where the old ships would launch
is the only place to live in winter.
Under the wimpled water
the hairy seaweed dances on the floor
of the shallow harbor
with the perfect look of summer.
I used to be afraid of the weather,
wondering how the birds fared
in the dark and the cold.
By November I was genuinely scared,
checking the temperature as December neared.
But my mood changes after eating sardines.
The temperate sea chuckles at its own frigiditity
under Pickering wharf
where the world of neat boards heaved off
to a spicier world.
If Hawthorne’s niece came down with a cough
the sea air would immediately cure her.
In my layers I hum Vivaldi.
I know his melody,
though swimming in music, is actually poetry.
I am in my head, crushing it, as usual.
I pity those who can’t live by the sea,
who never lie limp by the sea.