retirement

How would it be to live on a shore,
a wide, white, silk-sand shore...
they'd call me crazy, crazy old woman,
and never come to visit.

Driftwood would be enough,
and a loom,
and the butter carmels from the roadside store.

My house would be floored in sand,
sand blown through unfinished doors,
sand tracked in, scraped in, swept in
by the tides.

Seaweed and a cheerful scrap of netting
for the mantel mirror. NO SEAGULLS ALLOWED,
a sign by the door would firmly state.
Every day I'd debate
what to wear: starfish for earrings,
coral and sponge on a wild-strung necklace
with wood, and red-orange shells,
and a tarp from some far long-gone ship
for my veil.

With winter winds and subtle aches in my bones
would I mark the passing of months and years,
and so,
with every curled driftwood shaving,
the passing of the sea.