When dreaming of a beach

One must be more specific

There is beauty in ice sculptures, black rotten leaves, dark sand granules, and zebra mussel abandoned shells

Someone carved a number into the willow’s bare bark

Some time ago

251

Someone once cared enough to stop, and take the time

To whittle away precious hours

Lost in the subtle art of carving, knuckles bare, and knife cold

I wonder what it meant to them, and how long it’s become part of the tree

Becoming one story, etchings of bark and the past long ago

I wonder are they dead now, ash and bones becoming whole

One with the earth and the wind, as it shall be for us all

What secrets, hopes, desires, and burdens lie etched in the tree’s history?

I cannot say

251

I had not noticed before on the walk, passing by lost in thought without a second glance

The number haunts me, though

Walking without ever taking the time to observe my surroundings

Why had I been so careless, so caught up

Why did I not pass with more care and attention

Why was I so fraught with worry, the banality of being human

The biting frost keeps me alert, hurried, and on the go 

Alive without noticing the minute details

I slow my pace to circumstance

I had no choice but to wander and wonder

May is brisk and grey, but clear

I have time, enough time, and more time to ponder 

To stop, and inhale nature, surrounded by her gifts

Focusing on the grey sky above, and the green blossom buds below

I yearn, still

Black angry waters churning and misting my face

Taunting 

When dreaming of a beach, one must be laser-precise

Quite spectacularly specific

White sand dollar dreams and lazy day, warm sunshine life

Exists

Just not today, not on this day

The sun is kind, though

She will return to smile down again

There is grace in choosing to be here

Remembered

For how much you truly loved walking by the shore

Sun up to sun down