And The Word Was Made

 

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.