I never toe-squished from a rocky shore
To wade into a duck-and-water cover
That would salvage my muddy, sidestepping soul.
The Mississippi sun’s baptismal fire
Plunged me into turquoise-tiled bliss
While polka dots snowed my slick lime Speedo—
A state of grace fogging my goggles.
This meditation ran long and lean,
Paced by thirty-two concrete-grazed flip turns
And steadily churned whip kicks—
Thoughts slow-motioned in cloudy sounds,
And the pool estuaried
Into my paintbox season
Of the Gulf of Mexico
Ruching Veronese green
Under cerulean skies
Stroked sea-salt clean;
Waves pulled back an instant
Then rushed, their edges like linen cambric,
Muffle-roaring and washing over
A village of small dome houses
Built after my mother showed me
How to dig in my foot
And hold it there—not to pull out—
Until my hands pat-patted
A sand house that God did not understand;
It was was, after all, far more delightful
Than something built on a rock.
I followed the earthbound flight
Of coquina butterflies
Scooped and tossed with the swipe
Of each wave,
Their tinier-than-penny shells
Rippling rainbows, sunsets, and indigo depths—
A bucketful of wonders
Finer than my fingerprints;
In a thousand footfalls
Patterning the dry white beach,
I heard the squeaks of emerald summers
On Santa Rosa Island—
Until a sudden breath pop-up
Filled with the chorine squeals
Of children water-winging in the shallows—
And I rubbed my goggles clear.
Nice. Brought back some memories.
Thanks, Karen! Happy holiday!
I loved this so much! I feel like something has happened to your poetry lately – it’s as if you’ve shed a skin or something, it’s just as deep but somehow airier, it just flies, I adored this one and the last one tremendously… xoxo from Sharron in Paris
Thanks so much, Sharron. I felt the shift, too, starting around June. I like that idea–shedding skin. There’s nothing intentional in the change–just something organic. Tu es si gentille. Bises. Tu me manques!
Nice
Thanks for dropping by!
I am endlessly stunned by my friend’s ability to transport my soul to times long past, to the innocence of a childhood that exists only in the most time-worn tatters of well-washed scarves fluttering in a warm and comforting breeze—I am transported, I am fed, I am soothed, and I am uplifted by your poetry Catherine, and I thank you.
Thanks for your words of encouragement, Leila Lou. It’s a joy to share memories. Much love to you and yours.