It is a quiet clapping
no waves
the beach is perfect
the way she combed it
her writing stick
aimed
ready
to commando
words
across the sand
every ripple on the water
she has named
every shell silver dollar
every palm frond fallen
she can even time the breezes
if she wants to.
there are only 11 seagulls
she has their potato chips
there is plenty enough
for every beak
there are no
humiliating
squabbles
to have to
listen to.
clouds with colors
a sistine ceiling
all is as always in
perfect
lovely
order
designed
by the rhythmic quiet
lapping along her private beach
where she controls all
audio
but suddenly now
there
some full sail clipper
attempting anchor just
yonder
and she clicks
her tongue
with stink eye
and the yen
where are the
words in the sand
today?
she stands with her stick
and in vain tries to recall
the poignant message
she had dreamt and
rose to scrawl
for this day
it was brilliant!
it was good now
what was it?
her winged familiar
flies above humming
at it’s side
a giant dragonfly
a discerning eye
and love looks
like illusion
and if only
the distant rumbling
were tsunami
to save her
if only the reef would
rise like great barrier
sharks circling ’round
methane bubbles
fire corral
mines
portuguese
man o’ war
she wants everything
but remembers this and wants
not that hunger
not that intrusion
nor that dragonfly
with it’s bright peacock
wings and wisdom
nothing more than that
which is nothing
which is everything
a fly nonetheless
beautiful or no.
disgruntled
she holds a rusted key ready
to toss it into the newly agitated surf
the lock now missing
just gone
just gone
in love sadness
takes inventory
of everything that
might be moved or
must be buried
pre reminiscing
of when her island
was pristine and
void of any
brightly
winged
illusion
when writing in
the sand once
came so easily
-yvonne de la vega
© 2011
