Friday, July 2, 2010

View from the northern Pacific coast

Sand is a great metaphor
when worked upon by wind or water
so pliable
and you can form it to your will
until it all collapses
and erodes
and subsides
because of the forces you can't control
and can't even defend against.
Write your thoughts on the shore
and stand by them
the tide will take them away
and you will sink into the surf
but oh, it's beautiful.
To gaze out at the gunmetal clouds
curving down to meet the surf
not blue
not where I come from
but green
green in a way that rivets your heart
green so profoundly desolate
and utterly alive
bent over the horizon
sending you waves to wipe out your work
and remind you
that you, at best, are a drop
in it
but it will play with you
and caress you
and breathe its sweetest salt air upon your neck
and sing to you its lullaby
which
when one thinks about it
is such a thorough cacophony
that there is nothing it is not saying
and it says nothing.
The surges collapse on each other
vying to splash you
clawing over the riptide
adding up to inundate
or breaking early
spent
and all this time
whatever you had wrought
was flattened
and settled into the beach
without your notice
because you were entranced
and the ocean had you
occupied with its majesty
and the tide goes out
smirking
leaving you dry
to write and build again.

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