Across the Water

From across the sound,
The storms upon the mountain seem very small.
And we have the urge to cross the white-capped water:
The journey provides some distance, disrupts routine.

When I was a child, adults seemed
Like they had it figured out.
And now I know we haven't,
And my child has grown bigger,
And is beginning to talk.
As winter approaches,
The memory of early light fades,
And I get my thick socks.

The thought of soup until spring is plenty solace.
When I return from out, home smells of onion and garlic.
The warmth stings my cheeks,
And I leave my shoes on the mat
To avoid tracking leaves.