(dedicated to sweet Conga, 2003-2021)
The beach grass gold
is softened by the fog
wispy in the morning.
Down at the water’s edge,
looking at the waves,
the long strands of kelp,
bubble in the froth,
all before me,
I am helpless, but
chronicle what my eye sees.
To be like Wordsworth
and those daffodils.
My words pain me
in the way photorealism
irks me. Just give in
and look. Look again.
The irony is that
it is best to be
like my black dog silhouetted
down near where the bay
empties into the ocean.
She is dancing near the
bobbing head of a sea lion
who seems to look back at her
as if desiring to dream
of this other life
that seems to mirror its own,
to hold her image
at day’s end: to connect
to this beach, all its creatures,
to this planet
we sense within us.
