Your voice meets me in the
street where I wait
in the rain for a taxi.
This street is newly paved.
The scent of smoke and oil
hover, curl in the air.
There wasn’t any pavement
where we lived, on the coast,
only gravel, mud and snow.
The winter months were
best when we simmered in 
out nest, wintering like wasps.
The white clapboards preserved
us like a museum vault.
We celebrated Spring by
splashing them with schoolhouse
red, a sign, you said, of something
we cherished. But paint cracks and
fades quickly in sandy, salty air.
You left in October before the 
first snow. There was a long note,
more than I planned to do.
It is still raining, and this glistening
street reminds me of the night sky,
the way stars shine out over the 
ocean, a million hard diamonds.