It is the dip I translate, the sacred scoop of blue, its heft and that moment when, bright, it breaks the fluent skin and finds the light. In that fine weight and its release I hear the axis thrum, intuit the birth of waxwing and lily.
And the sand, with its keen edges, drinks the sun and returns radiance in swells of shattered stone, fields of shell and quartz. My knees are pillowed in soft deconstruction, fingers dusted with relics of kingdoms and conchs.
The tide favors me today, bears me jaunty as I give my face to the sky. These oars are abalone smooth, yellow as the orchids near Garvey’s grave. My lips are salty, hair wild as a nest. All day I ride and parse the sea’s graceful, starry back.
I have noticed how each day arrives, an often univited guest, with baggage, dilemas, challenges and joys in tow. We choose to face the day with dread or anticipation... with despair or hope. I opt for flinging open the door, going through those bags to look for treasure.
...before or perhaps of the wind, a droplet lifted and infused with sunlight. For an exhilerating moment we ride that wind until the sea enfolds us once again. In that windborne journey our story is told. As for me, it clarifies my yearning for the sea. Surely I was sprung from some wave struck against a wooden hull. In all my life no place has felt like home more than the deck of a ship, sailing the mystic, beautiful sea.
This morning’s radiance is windborne, a cleansed pool with its own indelicate clarity. I prefer rocky places where kinder light gathers like a nest of clouds. Precision has not been my ally. Sharp edges cut
and absolutes curl around my throat, verdant, thorned, never blooming. In silence I find a soft unraveling, a pillowed sigh and there the frayed hem crumbles into the shadowed breath of petals crushed. My gown
is a an attar of silk-stitched stars and muted fire. I wish the day curtained with whispered sun, where I can bask in uncertainties, warm my hands with their vague comfort. I shun the knife-blade tongue ,
its pearly hilt so tightly grasped, agleam like a dagger of the gods. I leave the raindrop’s argent mirror on the leaf for braver souls. I care not to see the truth of every thing.