Sunday Morning, St. Armand’s [Again]

Dawn 3/21/22

There are no shells on the beach this morning.

The second day of Spring in Sarasota finds me at the water before the sun.

The flashing wings of gulls just coming visible

The glint of the offshore dredger

Winks as the tug drones it by.

The light rises over my shoulders

As if to take me unaware

But I am ready as

The sun gathers yellow,

Discovering itself against the most pastel of a pink/blue horizon,

The Gulf flat enough to walk upon without tripping

Lifting from silence,

The shorebirds call each other, “Waken! Seize the day!”

= = = = =

I am comforted by beaches, having been raised on an island

The pulsing of the Atlantic a constant drum, a blue beyond borders,

A green deep enough to grow its seeds of salt

There the beach is tan; here the crystal white looks so pristine.

Here the sky is lifted: there it simply hovers.

Waves here briefly grin, then lap into sizzle

There each wave stands to overcome

Then dissolves in rushing hiss,

Down the beach, away

This mild morning, no wind separates flesh & bone

To peer between the two, discriminate.

= = = = =

Now the sun gives buttered light

As clamdiggers claim the fringe of water

Walking barefoot while I tug my sweater.

I anticipated chill, but not the silence.

Sandpipers whizz by in their commuter’s hurry

Interrupting the lullabye of crystalline sand.

= = = = =

I miss my days of bikini, mercurochrome & baby oil slather,

Umbrella stands & muscled boys manning them.

I miss being lifted over the smooth rollers

The power of the sea against a straw child

Simply swept up in that moment of the wave’s effortless passing.

I miss running for the blanket to throw myself upon,

Turning quickly to catch every sunlit moment

My body no longer unmarked, smooth & silky.

My soul traveled with it, onward, into light dreaming itself.

 = = = =

The eastern shadows move beyond the bodies

I sit, but am 20’ tall,

My shadow-head in the surf, rippling

the middle of me a pointed darkness

holding this journal open & the pen tallest of all.

= = = = =

A crow conquers yesterday’s sand castle,

Tearing down a turret, cawing

Batting wings like some dragon of old

Digging treasure,

His sanded voice owning it all.

 = = = =