Sunday, August 23, 2009

No Longer

No longer larva or bud
But in full bloom
And wide-winged,
Two companions meet
And in the passion throes of pollination
With blossoms bending
Nectar rising
Proboscis thrusting,
They drink deeply in
Such give and take
And then move on.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Down to the Beach

I walked down to the beach today
Passing Queen Anne’s Lace along the way
And clambered down the rocky slope
And eyed the beach with newborn hope.

I crossed the rippled red-brown sand
And clutched a damp stone in my hand
The sun burned through the haze-fogged sky
And made me shade then squint my eyes.

I walked by pools of emerald wrack
I walked until I need turn back
I felt I’d trekked near half-way home
I felt I need no longer roam.


Ox-bowed streams run their braided courses
Draining the land of yesterday’s showers
Returning them to the sea.
Willets and sandpipers,
While probing the sand for their daily morsels
Play with the surf, I swear
Like children loose of foot and care.

I follow the tide
So mystified
Called to its far flung reaches
Listening to that sweet enchanter
Yearning to pay homage
To our mother-home the sea
A tribute felt phylogenically.

And after legging over a million traces
Of crab and worm and bird
I found the lip, the line-drawn limit
The boundary for the moment
The edge of land and sea.
And as I stood and faced this broad horizon
I felt that I was already half-way home…
And then from silent consideration
I turned with this brief benediction:
No, I already am home.

Monday, August 3, 2009

On Patrol

I am on patrol.
I post sentry on each early morning
And then again late afternoon
Walking the tide-bathed sweeps of sand
Seeking but not finding
A horizon that may be hidden
In the uncertain blur of fog.

My duty is to watch and see
Listen and then hear.

I am new at my post
And alone,
Although I walk in parallel tracks with others
Who work the same shoreline,
We do not meet
And so I guess that they are phantoms
Who appear and then soon dissipate
Into the close cloud distance
And the kettle-drum wash and roar.

Are they angels from the past?
And if we met
On this challenged coast
What would they say,
If I could ask,
That I might need know?
Would they tell me
How to part the fog
And where to look
And what to listen for,
Or would they simply remind me
That what there is here for me
Is mine alone to discover?