Rough crossing

It was a rough crossing
to this little house
with our suitcases and cooler.
We had to light the pilot flame
to start the heater,
but once we sat down to our dinner,
sure, some things were missing
that we couldn't quite name
but it didn't matter.
This little house has bones.
It was moved years ago
from the far end of the island,
floated around
back when the only houses, built
from the timbers of shipwrecks,
were like little arks that had lodged on the rock
when the primal flood receded.
And then a forest grew up
that was clear-cut to build more houses
with roads and gardens in between
and everything that makes a village
that you might name
where lived the salty sons of the sons of sons
of the salty daughters of the daughters of daughters
and thrived the salty children of the children's children
(We picture them running out of doors
with tuna tails above the lintels)
who might have,
if allowed,
created that better world we all long for . . .
But anyway,
When we came here / as I say,
some things were missing that we couldn't name.
It was a rough crossing.
It always is.