April 24

if Robert Frost Lived on Cape Cod
Whose beach this is I think I know
Their year-round house is in the city though
They will not see me walking here
Or else they'd tell me where to go
The neighbors, they might see me here
But in spring, they too are not near
None have time to bother being here
On the Cape this time of year
So year rounders have a chance
Upon private beaches to advance
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy drake
The ocean's lovely, dark and deep
But I have no beach rights so off I creep
And travel miles to the public beach
And travel miles to the public beach

This one is for the twin's first trip to Old Silver Beach, though they weren't the ones who came home sandy.

Season at the Shore
by Phyllis McGinley
On, not by sun and not by cloud
And not by whippoorwill, crying loud,
And not by the pricking of my thumbs,
Do I know the way that the summer comes.
Yet here on this seagull-haunted strand,
Hers is an omen I understand -
Sand on the beaches,
Sand at the door,
Sand that screeches
On the new-swept floor;
In the shower, sand for the foot to crunch on;
Sand in the sandwiches spread for luncheon;
Sand adhesive to son and sibling,
From wallet sifting, from pockets dribbling;
Sand by the beaker
Nightly shed
From odious sneaker;
Sand in bed;
Sahara always in my seaside shanty
Like the sand in the voice
of J. Durante.

Winter is mittens, winter is gaiters
Steaming on various radiators.
Autumn is leaves that bog the broom.
Spring is mud in the living room
Or skates in places one scarcely planned.
But what is summer, her seal in hand?
Sand in closets,
Sand on the stair,
Desert deposits
In the parlor chair;
Sand n the halls like the halls of the ocean;
Sand in he soap and the sun-tan lotion;
Stirred in the porridge, tossed on the greens,
Poured from the bottoms of rolled-up jeans;
In the elmy street
On the lawny acre;
Glued to the seat
Of the Studebaker.

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