These rocks look like they’re weeping.
The shell has some flare,
this glass I rub between my fingers -
the ocean, and now my hands, in its wear.
The iridescence of abalone, my God!
I’ll always stop to stare.
Even retracted anemones
look more like the trunks of elephants
than creatures of the sea.
At times, I’m blinded by the sun
when I look down at the low tide sand,
and wonder at the transience of my footsteps, at the path to where I stand.
There’s a decomposing history
as I compose these words.
There’s a song in the solitary windswept tree
up on the promontory -
a music in its roar.
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