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.
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