**this be my favorite poem**

Massachusetts Bay

To the Lost Fisherman of 1870 and 1880


He didn’t want to set out, said his back and shoulders were getting
too old, wanted to fish from the rocks on warm, yellow days in his

boots, vest and jimmy hat. I told him there was time for that next
summer. The storm combed the water as I valiantly waited

with chamomile and honey steaming from my mug before the adamant
high seas took down thirteen great fishermen. It’s been eleven months

and some days I hear him miss me; the way the water weeps
on the sand early every morning, holding on for as long as it can

before a seagull pats it dry, how the waves roar to me before I sleep
for neglecting the sea yet another day, remembering the way we swayed

on our wedding day when I look out the panes and see the water dancing
in white skirts, moving like snow angel ornaments in the air, listening to

the melodic current against the whistling wind of his name, and smelling
from the porch what made me fall in love with him thirty-six years ago.