When I Am On the Island

I think of ghosts — 

Of former selves,

Of my grandparents,

Of my late brother,

Who celebrated every

August 10 birthday there.

Summer this far north 

Exudes a ghost-like quality,

The undeniable feeling

Of time slipping,

And endings 

Wrapped up

With beginnings.

Slow down,

I remind myself.

Be fixed like the island itself.

And when I am on

Some city street, in winter,

I think of the yellow

Gingerbread cottage

On the knoll,

Up from the cove,

Still and silent,

The musty books

Lining the shelves,

The faint burnt smell of

Last autumn's final fire

Spicing the cold 

Pockets of air,

The knick-knacks

Frozen in time,

Ready to emerge

In the summer sunshine.