Jennings Point

coarse, cold,
the sand about the wintered beach
was mixed with snow,
and I could not tell the difference,
save the crunch of those crystal pebbles
below my leather soles,
and near,
five old rocks like giants
guard the Peconic’s dance of
unnamed hues in the mystic moat:
coarse, cold,
but weathered in the way love weathers,
better for the wear that called us forth.