Retreating Storm

This private island
of suffering--

a stitch in my side
after the longest run
from my fear
and sorrow
that will not leave,

is not mine.

I will not live here,
abandoned and broken
like a lifeboat
with broken oars.

I will not be beaten
by the angry police
or the mob that would cast
stone after stone in my direction.

Instead, let me sit quietly in the sun.
Let me breathe the air
and watch the sea lap lightly
on the shore where healing grows--

This tide brings tiny treasures.
This brine gathered in the depths of grief
is dispursed with the boiling clouds
and the rain and the salty winds
of the lightness of another retreating storm.