By STEVEN WITHROW
At the harbor, someone locks
The gates to the boat slips.
Tonight, as we walk the docks
Bordering the half-lit port,
We notice fewer ships
Of leisure, ships of sport.
With summer going, we
Begin to count what’s left
Of those towed off, or gone to sea.
We treat it like a theft,
Each yacht that disappears,
Each mooring ball bereft
Of its sloop. But like a glacier
Melting away for years,
There’s grace in this erasure,
A prudence we both feel,
As all these empty piers
Leave nothing anyone can steal.