This scrubland, a scattering
of purple hedge nettle.
The path between
the lagoon’s flat surface and
where cows lull and breed
weaves my soul into
distant landlocked dunes.
Tall grasses (and your hair)
wave in an ocean’s breath,
as we breathe to measure
the airy weight of salt.
We reach driftwood
bare-footed on warm
or often hot packed sand,
still distant from
the softer beach.
Between there and here,
the dunes rise into a
meditation of grasses.
We find shade within,
to be held by a sacred sound –
ocean wind through reedy green.
Almost to the sea.
