Comes a time when the house is empty of shouts
and footsteps, and the hummingbirds, too,
are frantic to be gone. The marigolds
smell of promises kept and the kitchen of sadness
or cinnamon. I sweep the sand away—the ocean
is faithful somewhere. I will take home the waves’
comforting roar, the sweetness of heat,
the crowds back and forth on the boardwalk,
in and out of the tide. I am not an ending or a beginning,
just the curl on the edge of a falling leaf, the start
of the mark of a pen. Comes this time once a year
when I understand I will never do anything
but end and begin. I am made of nothing
but nothings. There will always be more of me.