Poems in Free Verse & Modern

Morning arrives like a neighbor
who doesn't knock,
just leans against the doorframe
with two cups of coffee going cold.

My father used to say
the rain here has a stubbornness to it,
the kind that gets into the wool of your coat
and stays a week.

I keep his old brass compass
in the kitchen drawer,
the needle worn so thin it wobbles
when I take it out. North
is mostly a suggestion now.

Outside, the pines shake off the night
and the ferry horn drags its low note
across the water.
Someone is setting out crab pots.
Someone is learning to forgive.

The light comes back the way it always does.
Sideways. A little late.
Asking nothing.