On the first warm day, when both the front door
and the storm door are left casually ajar
without thought of conserving fuel,
and the storm windows on the south wall
are taken down, and the Windex is out,
and a pile of old newspapers is waiting
on the stoop, and the chickadees
are scattering the odor of sun-warmed pine,
you take the folded aluminum chair
that has hung on a nail all winter long,
and walk down the cement block stairs
to the strip of sand
that spans the narrow slope
between ebb and tide.

You unbutton your blouse at the neck,
roll up the sleeves, notice a blue heron light
on the mud flat – and that quick, white flitting
with the sharp cry must be the shy
roseate tern already back!
You adjust your chair,
brush away a strand of hair,
pull up your skirt so the thin, white skin
of your knees can feel the sun.
In the shallows,
diagonal lines of light knot their flickering nets
over scallop shells, razor clams,
the absurd scuttling of an old crab.
What did you say, once upon a time,
about swimming out into the cold,
when you grew old,
beyond the surf, to grow numb, overcome
by some benign fatigue, to simply sink
in the sea-drift, a gentle accident, well-planned,
executed while you still could use your will,
so not to end tied to a wheel-chair
in a nursing home, half blind,
or in a hospital bed,
hooked to a tangle of tubes?
You untie your shoes and place them neatly,
side by side, beside the chair, take off
your socks and roll them up into a ball,
thinking the swallows will soon be back

under the eaves, and the beach plums
will bloom, and the wild roses on the dune.
The sand feels warm under your bare feet.
Even the water in the shallows
is warmed by the sun. ‘
Minnows scatter as you step in,
laughing, feeling like a child,
on the first day of summer,
before knowing how to swim,
standing with a new bucket and shovel,
ready for the splashing to begin,
while the still nameless birds
announce their return
with their crying, their song.