October Breakwater

October is a breakwater you step onto,
slick stone and salt breath rising
from the Atlantic’s throat.

The air tastes like cold pine
and the ghosts of summer bonfires.
The tide pulls back, revealing
the long ribs of the sandbar—
a road the ocean only allows
for part of the day.

You walk it anyway.
Because October is a place
that wants you wandering.

The fog moves like a living thing,
curling around your ankles,
whispering warnings
you pretend not to hear.

Fort Popham watches from the shore,
its granite shoulders hunched
against centuries of storms.
Even the gulls quiet themselves
as you pass.

October has streets made of tide lines,
avenues of driftwood and kelp knots,
porch lights glowing from cottages
that shouldn’t have electricity
but somehow do.

There’s a house near the marsh
with a single lantern burning—
a warm, amber pulse
in the blue-gray dusk.
You know better than to knock,
but October loves a fool
who tests its doors.

You keep walking.
The sandbar stretches ahead,
a path that wasn’t here in September,
leading you toward an island
that appears only for those
who need to disappear for a while.

October opens its gate.
And you step through.