Perhaps we come from God,
like currents of the sea siding with doom
while unwashed humans stick to gloom–
hard lives sheltered under frazzled rock,
under fragile tree branches ready to fall
and commit you to a balancing act of one:
words on the page, walks on the beach,
white sand, hot.
“You can stay here all day,”
the wind tells me while I lay, tracing figures
taught to me as a child, lurching for a hope
I found in my first book– one about the ocean.
Sea gulls cry out as if they, too,
can hear our human song: current take me
with you, so my words can go home,
go home, now.
February 10, 2014