It’s been so long, I try to rush but can’t.
My calves play “push and pull” with sand-soft ground
while soles thicken against each grain’s sharp edge.
The ocean wants me, too, enough to salt
my arms before I reach her moistened slip—
I smell and taste her as I lick an itch,
both hands too full of leisure things to scratch.
Already I breathe with the billowing
skirts of ocean twirling along the shore.
And I haven’t yet felt her cold and wet
between my toes, haven’t yet dared her catch
me, suck the ground beneath and swallow me.
There she is! Ocean’s playing catch with Earth,
tossing both live and dead beings, mixing
them up with plastic and sea glass and foam.
I place my bags above the high tide line
and bow to both before marking my space
with blanket and books and water bottle.
Ocean and Earth and Sky intersect where
I am—between, among and inside them—
lining up bottle caps and sparkling stones.
Midsummer meeting needs no fire or drums.
Its mystery predates evil: To stay
in relationship no matter what comes.
*© 1972, Z Budapest
For my prompt
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.