Ocean Point

A vacation here is lovely

I love your mornings. Not your

brilliant gold, but your quiet ones,

which gather together folds of 

mist and pierce them through

with the tongue of a light house.

 

At sea, your rocks rise from underneath

the water, spiny anatomy, and those

twisted ossifications are a testament

of age, and the accidental genius of

your biology. 

Your waves go sifting  

in.

not met by a sand beach

but a rocky one, tough, dragon-backed

and made for winter. 

In the cove, there is white foam 

scraping back

loose pebbles into the mouth 

of the surf, 

dragging them once more to the 

ocean floor, drowning the

land-locked. and I pick up my own

stone and pitch it far out

into the water, hear it plunk 

somewhere from in the fog and sink

down,

gasping bubbles.