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well....

Today, for the first time
in the few weeks I’ve known you,
there is sun
that splashes overwhelming warmth and light
off trees and cliffs
and takes saturated greens, reds,
and the blue of the ocean with it.

We stop there, at the narrow ledge of a shoreline
shoved by the rocks right out into steel gray water.
We charge into the rolling waves and  straight away
the cold grips
our arms and legs
while the waves make try after try in shifts
to fling us out
We stumble out stinging, with small tense steps,
 hugging ourselves

It’s still too early for us to go swimming.
The sun shines but the water hasn't warmed yet.
Too much,  too soon.

Back at your house
the shirt I gave you to keep warm in
is beside me while I lay in your bed as you  wash up.
My fingers move like dreamy spider legs
reeling the fabric toward me.
I pinch and slide flannel between my fingers --
It’s still soft in spite of the saltwater, which I can still smell
hiding subtly between each note of you.
The shirt is somehow still warm and I bring it closer
and fall asleep

I leave when the sun is gone and replaced by dark and fog.
I say goodbye and set out for home.

I want silence
while I drive through the fog
that squeezes light back into light bulbs
and keeps it there like flares
hanging still in darkness from nothing.
Flares on either side of me, over my head
that glow fiercely and urge me to turn around
and go back the other way
to uncertain matte blackness.
I do it.

I can’t see what’s coming up ahead of me
through such dense fog,
 fog so thick
It makes my car sluggish as it tries to cut through.
The wait gives me to time to wonder,
worry:
What will I say when I get back?
How can I explain to you flannel shirts and sea salt?