that you get less than 15 minutes after
you arrive at the house you love
by the ocean because you simply

have to go out on the deck, unlatch
the clasp that holds down the lid
to the hot tub and check the temp,

but the new tub has been installed
so that you cannot see the digital
readout any other way than inching

around the planks surrounding
the damn tub and kneeling to peer
at the faint numbers in the late

afternoon light, which is when you
feel the zing of splinter thread its
way into your left ring finger,

and after you swear, you make out
the number 104, then with an undamaged
finger stab the down arrow button

to 101, rising carefully to look out
to the ocean, so close here, which
is where you should be, taking your

first walk on this bit of sand after
far too long away, so, after you go
inside, literally take a stab or 30

at your left ring finger, managing
to extract only part (of course) of
the damn splinter, with more

swearing to quell the pain, you detect
a sigh of someone not you, saying
“Breathe, honey,” so you do,

taking the hint to put on your
shoes and sweatshirt and hightail
it out to the trail that leads

directly to the dunes that hump
along the ridgeline, giving you
an excellent view of lemon yellow

lupine waving breezily at you,
and you forget about your finger
as you make your way to the sand,

watching the sun still giddily
high in the sky for 7 p.m., and
you remember that this is late

spring going on summer,
your favorite time of year, so you
find a rock where diminished

waves arrive nearly but not quite
at your feet, reminding you of
the always-thereness of ocean

and sun and sky, and why,
always, you are so happy to be
here, refueling the ocean creature

you know yourself to be.