The deserted house at the edge of the shore
whispers of lives lived there before.

The bones of the house creak in the wind
empty of families that Time has thinned.

Swaybacked from wind, salted by sea,
the windows are sockets, the clapboards pitch east.

A parade of generations left marks on the house.
To ask who they were, query the mouse.

My feet find a path that winds to a dock
no colorful kayaks, no boats near rocks.

The smell of the Sound meets my nose.
Time stands still.

I am not alone.