The Last Night at the Ocean

We waited many long nights since February
to feel the pulse of the ocean in our truest bodies;

the energy that conquers all time
and clears the mildew and rust
of sitting still for too long.

We happily waited through the snow and constant ice of New England
to nearly burn our feet bronze on the sand on a day just like today.

The color of our skin is no longer the white of enamel.
Our shoulders might even be caramelized brown as butter and sugar
and smooth as a polished stone near this sandy shore.

Tonight, on the last night at the ocean, we begin to pack ourselves up
for the long trip back to the life of mowing grass, pulling weeds,
piles of laundry, electric bills, writing daily rhymes,
and making the bed
as if order can be gathered
in the cool comfort of sheets.

On this last night at the edge of the salty water in Saco
we listen to explosions off shore of the boardwalk
and feel the echos of the independence we feel
each time we come to rest here.

We know here, if no place else,
we are free for a little while.

Stop Waiting in Silence

The moon is nearly full
in the corral of all the sky we can see
from the small place on the shore,
our eyes starving to embark on a voyage
as concise as the sailors
who plot the points of each day
by the stars and ancient demolished suns
who lost their way
before time began in these waters.

I will plunge into the ocean anyway.
My fear is more than anyone could expect to change.
If the trembling is mixed with the waves,
perhaps we can pretend
all is not lost in the cold saltiness.

We will sing sustaining songs into the company of the darkness
and stop waiting in silence for twilight
to awaken us all.

What Could be Better?

At the blue precipice of all this morning,
light checking her passport with some minor qualms
about the ladder that must be climbed to really shine,

we verify
that all the coins
in this short day
will not be enough
to finance the glaring division
between this moment
and the darkness

engineered to quiet the mind
and soothe the magnificent
aching of the soul
at the recognition
of forever.

The truth of it all
bubbles just under the surface
of the skin of the body
so that you have stopped hoping
to return as something
better.

Traveling East

There are a few items
buried deep in the sands of June or early July
where the wishes of the heart live as treasures
to be uncovered by the friend of this constant soul.

I am clearing a space on the slate
and have scratched a few clues
on the cluttered walls of the mess of the mind
that will help the skilled seeker
to find shimmering truths about joy
and other watery emotions
that carry us all to the end
of all knowing.

The message is simple:

When I leave for the sea today,
bring only what is needed.

Thick towels, salty almonds,
quiet voices, laughter,
fancy fizzy water,
a low chair and a mat for stretching,
stories about love and losses,
the French press and dark coffee,
lavender shampoo and vanilla lotion,
silence,sea glass,sand dollars,
the journal for poetry,
the books to finally read,
tender glances and gentle hands,
basil, lettuce, and radishes from the garden,
cold white wine and good bread,
slow dancing,
butter for baking,
smooth cotton sheets and a soft pillow,
one rainy day for puzzles and naps,
heated sand,juicy gossip,
unexpected singing,
peaceful afternoon tea,
vivid dreaming,
the moon's embrace,
and something golden
like honey to hope for.

This map, this passage,
will make the way clear
to the delicate edge
of morning after morning
where love lives lightly.

The Winnowing

These summer days
my mind is like a busy toddler,

fingers linger on ideas not mine to touch,
the mouth is parched for knowledge
resisting nothing sweet,

wanting comfort

wanting

babbling
babbling
babbling

the constant flow of day dreaming
in the depths of bones healing
from wounds where battles have worn
everything thin.

Redirect this path with the storming heart
clearing the horizon of all of the chatter –
from this constant distraction,
like a wind winnowing the plump seeds from the nothingness
before the force of life takes root in the richness of the earth.

Hover

As if we mortals
have any say in the matter,
we preen and dance with delight
on this day of the shortest night.

As if we have actual leverage
negotiating at the horizon,
marking our territory in the pink glow
at the edge of all knowing
with imaginary fireworks
and shooting stars.

Hover here with me, my love.
Our blanket is warm
and the air lifts fresh mowing
like incense to all these forgotten glances.

Hover in the silence as we melt
into the earth holding tightly
to joy and are broken open

and where our stamina
is measured by all the ways
we let go of every thing.

Strawberries for Dessert

When June is ready to tip the light
toward the dark side of the year with bravado

we would rather banish to a slower plodding pace
like a flushed and blistered old woman walking home
from Sunday services

the sun follows her mechanical movement
of a toy wound too tight

and forgets that abundance
must slide and moan the birth sounds
of fat, juicy berries

and biscuits with whipped cream
slurping from a cold can

onto the plate of a small smiling boy
who forgets his manners and dips his fingers

into the delight
of strawberries for dessert.