Storm Sweep

The storm was supposed to miss us, winding down as it was,
and just barely scrape by the Cape, carving new dunes on the leeward side.
Neptune ignored the ‘supposed to be’, aiming his trident at the Hull of Boston-
carving the peninsula in two, taking back his own slice of the beach.
We sat huddled on the uppermost stair, my children and I
watching the flotsam and jetsam of our lives float through our living room.
Listening to the roar of wind, to the tide sweeping our car into the bay.
There was no escape. Even seagulls succumbed to his mighty wrath.

There had been no evacuations called, no run on bottled water
on our sandy, half mile wide, spit of land. No plywood blinders,
No masking the glass, thus a clear view into the destruction.
The ocean met the bay in unbroken wave. We left it all behind—
flooded with memories. Months later we returned to the condemned land
to walk one last time our beloved shore. Our favorite --an island unto itself--
once a cheerful yellow and white cottage
with ruffled curtains dancing in the breeze.

Now where once laughter rang out across the water,
where ladies with broad-brimmed hats once shared umbrella-ed drinks
seated in Adirondack chairs or lounging on hammocked swings,
and where the carefree once escaped the harsh humidity of Boston,
now, wind-scored wood sanded free of paint teeters soulless,
eyes wide and hollow. Seagulls soar and nest in empty rooms,
their screams counterpoint to silence. We turn, and follow our footprints
until they too, are eaten by the waves. Like sand, we are swept away.