Already mid-November and by now the annular poem
about age has been penned, the latening of the season,
how the dark so early subsumes what we forget to dream.
This year is different and the sky holds no water.
Dry fathers pass and pass again like so many night
clouds, unseen as we sleep fallow with fertile eyes.
Instead, it is a time of beachwalks, of strangered hands
pressing into our bodies, of slow cascades outrunning our
steps, tempered hearths we place our fiery silence before.
Along the high waterlift, we travel where we have passed
before. The familiar is renewed again as there are spits of
no footprint we will leave to none but themselves to trudge.
How often we forsake the sanctity of our first home to
rake spyglass across seabirds and otters, scout massive
shapes sleeping and shifting sealsand over themselves so.
But salt is salt and we know enough to keep things holy.
Arches allow a way for the sea to both weep and worship,
push in through doors that will scarcely stand test or time.
So this year, this must be enough. Yes, sixty-one in the
books and I can hardly believe it to be such a thing. Your
eyes hold me as I cannot hold myself and through you, I see.
Thus the days find us in tide-light, redraw us in pleasing
perspectives against the dusk, when the quiet hours walk
above us with heavy shoes and we imagine all manner.