The sea grass
on the high
sloping dunes of sand,
sparse, irregular,
over-long,
a salt-gray green,
bends back,
backward and away
from the dark,
white-crested waves.
The old man
looks out at the day,
this day, any day.
The wind of it,
the velocity of possibility,
now, now of all times,
blows so hard
he cannot move.
I love this poem. It depicts the image of the proverbial “deer caught in the headlights” when we freeze in response to our fear of the possibilities life may hand to us next …especially as we ripen with age.