The lemonade is gone, but I hold the glass,
cool, against my cheek. Each three minutes,
the icemaker drops a crescent, storing provisions.
Somewhere icebergs are warming into oceans.
Even here, waves pound on the shore: “Let us in!”
On the beach after sunset we stared at a blue-filled sky,
clouds still blazing in remembered sun
but from above, we must have seemed a foolish
world asking for one more flood.
Playing-cards litter our cottage table,
wetsuits sprawl beside fins, emails call.
All our toys will be lost when the fuming sea
starts to rise, crashing the double-pane windows,
when our chairs begin to float into one another.
In that day, we’ll joke, “Warm enough for you?”
before the last laugher goes under
and we become one with the ocean,
rising and falling over the nothing left,
our planet smoothed into a boiling ball
of blue waters in a faultless blue sky,
and no one here left to say Blue.