Receding waters
by Gail
The struggle must seem endless
and, at times, incomprehensible:
the sea cannot be drained
by one small intermittent spoon,
the stone upon the shoulder growing
heavier with mists and miles and falling rain.
Much easier to walk away, don the familiar
haughty armor, pull the warm forgiving cork,
kill the orchids in your heart, plant thorny
brush instead: your father will be pleased,
will forgive the unpalatable truth.
But the dreams that have risen in your soul
like the harvest moon, the friends spreading out
around you like fragrant forest violets, the lover
at your side sturdy like an ironwood tree,
these you cannot abandon,
they will not consent to lie in quiet graves.
They will twine around your feet,
tangle in your hair, shine relentlessly into your dry eyes.
And your father, even he will smell the salt
in your hair, see the strong currents
of a different ocean moving in your eyes.
The hope of returning to the iridescent past
floats as fragile as a soap bubble and as fleeting.
But the level of the tide drops quietly;
the seagulls use the stone to sharpen their beaks.
Walk out upon the wet sand gleaming in the moonlight;
gather the rough-edged gems revealed.
