The Cove

by Elaine Greene Weisburg

Elaine Weisburg, The Cove

Now I live alone but
the cove outside my window
keeps me company.
Talking on the phone,
I’ll say “The cove is like a mirror…
“There are whitecaps on the cove…
“Today the cove is frozen.”
It’s not just my view, it’s my news.

A hundred years ago,
they dumped their trash outside the door,
and in the cove, at tidal lows,
we’d rake out little bottles:
Moses Atwood’s Jaundice Bitters,
Swamp Root Kidney Remedy
—all fished out now, but the trove
sparkles in a window.

On the beach we’ve kept some boats,
the best my vintage wooden sharpie.
She skimmed along like a ballerina,
a breeze for the thief to slide into his truck.
The clumsy fiberglass successor
failed to win my backward heart.
But to dwell on the objects
and people I love
that are missing?
I try to make do with the cove.

For more than three decades Elaine Greene Weisburg was an editor-writer at House & Garden and House Beautiful. Although also a memoirist, she only dared to try poetry in an IRP class.