:pause, even here,
in one of my openly secret places I come
the cliffs of calvert
tower above the bay
as always I remember them
except window dressing
now and then, the light, the waves
or a plate of near glass
but in either way, a welcome hearth
I could go a whole universe
and not feel so loved by the earth
in just a coordinate, a spot on a map,
here;
so I pause,
watching the smallest of waves curl in from afar
like a sweeping hand, over and over arcs
a consistent caress under our single star, warming late summer
I see and hear the clamor of the bits of broken shells
for the whole ones stay calmly together, for now
I pick a piece up, for no other reason
no impetus, but for the random chance
and see the lines, the stark colors
the circles and invisible lines, and I think of the sky
the planets
how even saturn, or jupiter or
the other less famous suitors of fame
the hue’s house of colors,
the patterns, the swirls, the same
all right here, like little broken dull mirrors
lying about on this gentle shore
for me to find, and realize
I need not travel far to this wonder far
and feel the rush and thrust of creation
in all the broken pieces, out about my feet
as they are wound down to once more become
again recreated,
perhaps stardust for another beginning,
here, in my hand, all of history from death to birth.

Notes… although I had a terrible sinus infection most of the week I still came back from my annual trip to the cliffs a newly charged battery, perhaps a little wiser, smarter, calmer… until the grinder chews me up again, and then I will be due for my yearly appointment to those shores… a calling.