There are no sizable stones here
to build a wall or line a fish pond.
You have to buy them at the nursery
or garden center in the mall.
My neighbors have done that. Aligned
in blue and gray, rocks form a river
on their front lawn. There is no water
but I can still taste and feel water, cool water
fresh water, deriving its spirit
from the word.
My shadow wavers in its flow
of fiction -- stretching long and onward
into stories I will write. One
about us standing on the beach
where the ocean plays her music
across the white keyboard of our feet. The refrain
of a recent event unfolding
in her song. Quietly, we blend into glare.
Ghosts in an afterlife of something
vast. The wet sand epitaphed
with our footprints while seagulls hang
on the horizon.
Their candelabrum of wings
lit by the sun. A breath of narration
that's either opening or closing the day.