My father’s parents lived in a small community wedged between

a salt marsh and heavy industry, machine shops and factories

of an old eastern coast city.

Most industry were rusting relics, but I heard Sikorsky still operated.

Each visit I was told to avoid the streets leading to the abandoned

buildings because I liked to roam.

My father also said it’s good to remember that on this earth

we are all just visitors here.

I was faithful to my elders and slept well at night.

Believe it or not, when Frankie next door wasn’t around

the salt marsh was everything to me, summer and winter.

Between traipsing around to taking my boots off to enter

into the house through the mud room, always late,

doors were not locked.  Then everyone left doors open.

The tall reeds bloomed like flowers through the shallows.

I lay in the sun and wandered.

Found the nest with the eggs and hungry chicks.

Peacefully, to not disturb anything in their world.

Learned to go clamming.

Fiddler crabs slipped through fingers like too many thumbs.

I found Indian head coins, a can with a 1909vdb

Lincoln head penny and other treasures and lost it!

At tides edge I righted horseshoe crabs and star fish and

returned them to their water world.

Older I came to understand they were more related

to spiders and there is only our one world—

learning little by little to love it.

Today I looked in the mirror, in which to see at last

the child came home.  I unlocked the door,

greeted him and let him in.

Stephen Cipot

Garden City Park