Walter Holland | Afternoon, Fire Island

Light softens on the sand, silver breaks under trees —

last night’s rainstorm is gone, puddles of mud

lie near the boardwalks. Green with May, the leaves

thicken their cover. Flowers have begun to bud

and workmen work on the houses, repair

the planks or add an extra deck.

Here I write away without a care,

this rental house we have — a real wreck —

old and worn. “Leisure” from another time —

hardly the glamorous places we used to rent

but that’s OK, I’m fine

with more modest digs — I’ve spent

enough time here on display

to now accept things as they are — “come what may.”