By Lyn Procopio
In the summer
before her eyes were open,
she listened to the morning sounds
of Long Beach Island.
There was stillness mainly,
with random breezes,
mewing seagulls overhead, and
crisp voices from the streets below.
She knew, in seconds,
it would be a golden summer day.
Other mornings,
she’d hear muffled voices,
front and back the house,
steady heavy rain gusts,
sluggish cars at a standstill
on the street.
She knew the island
would be wrapped in fog
on this dismal day.
On these rainy days
everyone was sullen, bored and restless.
They lamented
that there was no sun.
It was a “wasted” day to nearly all.
She was glad.
She didn’t have to “do” the beach,
or work at the Polar Cub
She could walk down to the bay,
under her umbrella, hidden from the world
and watch huge raindrops spread in circles
across the bay.
She could read another book
from the knotty pine-clad shelves
in their Ship Bottom Cape
ten houses from the beach.
She’d sit on the wicker seat
sipping tea
listening to the rain–
reading and dreaming
on this Midsummer’s day.
