Saturday, July 9, 2011
At Blackwater Pond
At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled
after a night of rain.
I dip my cupped hands. I drink
a long time. It tastes
like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold
into my body, waking the bones. I hear them
deep inside me, whispering
oh what is the beautiful thing that just happened?
photo by the ever-lovely marta: "Because there's always a moment of a Mary Oliver poem out there." love and miss you too much.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Walking Across the Atlantic
I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach
before stepping onto the first wave.
Soon I am walking across the Atlantic
thinking about Spain,
checking for whales, waterspouts.
I feel the water holding up my shifting weight.
Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.
But for now I try to imagine what
this must look like to the fish below,
the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.
No, I'm not in Spain. I've been in Argentina since the end of January. Today I, la mochilera, will be finally heading home. I booked a flight for 11:11 (in all seriousness.) Besos!