Untitled, After Edward Hopper’s “Rooms by the Sea”

Of a front door flung open,
beyond the step is simple, open
sea. The light is milky.
Stirred by the wind with each
nearing current.

You know that familiar
mirroring: the bright echo
of glint and glimmer
bouncing off blue seawater.
But it’s better than that.

This light is a blinding
afterthought, the sun’s
consideration reflected as a favor.
The sea laps steadily
at the doorstep.
An eager dog.

Waves froth and curl,
tugging landward at the broad hem
of the sea’s golden skirt.
Her knees are pressed with sea oats
from kneeling so long.

Our floating house is getting full
of heavy light. A vase of sea holly
tumbles with the swell and unswell
of waves. The broken buds, like
little purple snowflakes, melt
into blinding white or crawl
like sea spiders
back into the ocean.