Littoral

Somewhere beyond this January fog
that’s walled me in against the dunes
are murky, Atlantic waves sneaking
ashore. From where I sit,
toes clenching the cool, white sand,
I can hear the squeaky, kip-kip call
of a stormy petrel surfing the crests.
If I was fifteen, instead of fifty-five,
I would concoct some epiphany 
from this solitude, imagine myself 
a lighthouse or a mermaid, 
but long ago I stopped needing 
such clarification, wanting now
only to stretch my legs toward 
the inevitable, ebbing tide.

Share!