old is not an ocean or even a stream, it is grittier, remote and dry
wind-wracked dunes peering through scrub at winter’s white water whipsawed in the cutting cold
a homely cottage in a fairytale forest listing into sinkhole
a spectral gulf you stumble upon feet scrabbling for purchase in sandy soil
an almost soundless hollow where you pause, ears pricked for the pulse and purl of water returning, receding
like a guest whose departing you, love, tomorrow wraith through your empty familiar-unfamiliar house
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Mary Beth Hines is the author of "Winter at a Summer House" (Kelsay, 2021). A member of the Boiler House Poets Collective, she participates in an annual Assets for Artists workshop residency at the Studios at MASS MoCA. Her most recent work appears in journals such as Presence, RockPaperPoem, and Solstice Literary Magazine as well as in Lightwood. Visit her at www.marybethhines.com
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